Torchwood: Boston
by comedianmasta
Summary: /TorchwoodNine Torchwood: Boston follows the Misadventures of Lieutenant Harold Norman and the rest of Torchwood Nine, Boston, as they rebuild the new Torchwood and regain control of the Americas.
1. Pilot Part One

**Everything Changed**

4:25 in the afternoon. Harold sighed, looking up from the pocket watch and out onto the small Vermont farm. Wilhelm returned to the porch from inside the house, and hailed Harold to the farm house. Harold rolled his eyes, but closed his pocket watch and returned it to his vest.

He stepped out of the Plymouth Tucson, its black paint shining in the sunlight. His wool great coat picked up the breeze, allowing its cooling wind to fill his sweat-stained shirt. He brushed off the fedora he held in his hand before placing it on his head. Walking up to the porch, he caught his first glimpse at the older couple inside, the woman making her way through the old screen door.

Harold ignored Wilhelm and went straight to the old woman.

"Ma'am," he said, tipping his hat, "Lieutenant Harold Norman, Torchwood."

"It's still hard," the woman interrupted, traces of crying still in her voice, "I've already spoken to so many police… but I'll try to answer your questions and what you wish."

"Ma'am, we're not the police," Harold said, "And… I am sorry but I don't much care for her."

Wilhelm shuttered, and the eyes of the old woman seemed to deepen.

"All I want from you," Harold continued, "Is to know where the eye witness is. I need to talk with him."

"You have to be such a raincloud?" asked Wilhelm, turning the vehicle into another farm's driveway, "For Christ's sake, Norman."

"No offense, Sergeant," spat Harold, "But this case hardly has any hope."

"But you can't give them any? Wow, this has really got to you."

"Look, she's gone. There is no way we're going to find her. We haven't found the others."

"Doesn't mean they weren't lost. Don't turn into one of them, man," said Wilhelm, "Once this place takes your heart… that's how we lost all of our meaning."

"What does that crap even mean, man," said Harold.

"Look," Wilhelm put the truck in park and faced Harold, "Our mission was one of protection and salvage and… archival. Now the Big Bosses are declaring an all-out war on some… blue rectangle. I mean… how much farther can we go? It's this cold, machine powered hate that's keeping the war going."

"The war ended years ago," snuffed Harold.

"How can you say that? Washington keeps demanding weapons. The Soviets begin shutting us out. How about the homeland? Order 502? What are you seeing?"

"Life. What are you on about?"

"Hitler and Tojo may have fallen, but the war for liberty and freedom grows stronger," Wilhelm noticed a man emerging from the house, shotgun in hand, "It comes time you got to stop and think… what have we become? And in… forty years or so how will our actions affect Torchwood in the future?"

"Wilhelm… you worry me," said Harold, opening the door, "You keep talking like that… come on. Let's catch this bastard."

After calming down the eye witness, the man took them inside and sat them down. Both Wilhelm and Harold ignored the offer of coffee, but asked to see the site. Ten minutes later, Harold found himself in the woods behind the man's house. The man aimed his shotgun out ahead of him, towards an area of bushes and a dead tree.

"That's the spot," stuttered the man, looking around him at the forest, "That's where it happened."

"Talk us through it," said Wilhelm, scanning the area with a device he drew from his pocket.

"Well, as I told the police… I… I was out here, hunting. In season, mind you. I got permits. But I was… I was sittin' back there a ways, some, when I heard the little girl. Gigglin' and skipping along."

"Not scared? Jarred? All alone out here," questioned Harold, "She was just… skipping."

"Not alo-" started the man, but he stopped, "Not alone... there was someone with her."

"Really…" Harold didn't put any surprise behind his question.

"And I got up… and saw them. And… And… She screamed. And then they were gone." The man stopped, beginning to sweat, "Look, I fired a shot at him. You can see it there, in the tree."

"You just let them get away?" question Wilhelm.

"Look, I didn't do anything," said the man.

"Describe him," demanded Harold, looking directly at the man.

"I… couldn't really see," stuttered the man, "Maybe… he… had a suit."

"You can, and you will describe him," ordered Harold, gauging the man's shifting eyes and the sweat pouring from his face, "Look, we are not the police. If there is anyone you can tell…"

The man whipped his face, looking between the two agents for a moment.

"Who are you," asked the man, "Why would you believe me more then anyone else? It's… it's crazy, alright?"

"Because we specialize in crazy," said Wilhelm, holding up the device he was scanning with.

"We… deal with things like this," said Harold, his eye brows raising, "We're Torchwood, and I have a special interest in this case."

The man sighed, looking around before staring at his shotgun.

"The… man… took her," he started, "But I don't know how. He was… a big man. But he… wasn't big, you know?"

"Tall," helped Harold.

"Gangly, and tall… yes," said the man, "The girl was smiling, and laughin'. Then… then I gasped. He was just so… inhuman. The girl became so scared. She screamed. And he… he grabbed her. His arms… his legs. They were so… long."

"I got nothing, Norman," Wilhelm said, "But that's just the thing. This spot here… absolutely nothing. Not even anything normal. Just… a dead space."

"That's where he stood!" cried the man, pointing once more with his shotgun, "I raised my gun, and called out to him. The little girl… she… she reached out to me. She cried. She called for her parents."

"You shot the man," stated Wilhelm.

"First," said the man, tears in his eyes, "He reared up… he… he had more… more. And she… cried out for death. I mean, she was a little girl. What would make her say, no, plead such things?"

"Jesus, you shot her?" asked Wilhelm.

"I tried," he said, "But it… moved in the way. Then came at me. He… attacked me. I awoke… an hour later. I think."

"Describe him," Harold demanded, "What did he have?"

"A… suit," said the man, "He had… long limbs. He had… many… limbs."

"And his face?" cried Harold, taking a step forward, "Come on, man. Was it him? What face did he have?"

"He…" started the man, seeming to look past Harold, "His face was… oh my God."

The man's face turned white so fast that Harold was taken by surprise. When the man raised his shotgun again, the double barrels moving towards Harold's head, Harold reached out and swatted the barrels away, reaching for his own gun.

"No!" cried the man, "It's him! I don't believe it, it's him!"

Harold turned, his heart going cold. He pulled his revolver from its holster. Aiming down the sights he scanned the trees. He ignored the man's shotgun doing a sweep, his wails of fear now filling the forest. Wilhelm tried to hold the scanner aloft while grasping at his revolver, stuck inside its holster.

Harold scanned the forest, his revolver jumping from tree to tree. He scanned the treetops. Followed a gust of wind along the forest floor. Almost pulled his trigger on a fallen log. Again, almost on a falling stick. The reds and oranges of evening played tricks on their eyes. Shadows stretched from the trees.

There it was. A flash. A Glint. A red tie. Harold's eyes seemed to narrow on the tree. The raced the gun's sights to the location. A suited figured, ducking behind a tree.

"THERE" yelled Harold, firing a round toward the tree.

The round disappeared into the bark of the tree, the wood fragments exploding in a cloud behind it. Wilhelm and the man both jerked to the tree, the man now beginning to shiver.

"Oh my God… I'm not crazy… You saw it too?" cried the man.

"Quiet!" Yelled Harold, "Where the fuck is he?"

He scanned the area. The tree was still, the woods was quiet.

"Lieutenant Norman… What did you see?" asked Wilhelm, "There's nothing on the scanner."

"How can there be nothing," said Harold, "I saw it. Alright? I know I did!"

"Bullets don't harm him… I shot him twice! He's coming back for us…" the man began to ball, pacing slightly behind the two agents, "Oh, lord! Why me? Why have you forsaken me?"

Harold's eye caught it again. He looked towards where he had seen it. A movement out of the corner of his eye. There he was. Roughly eight feet up the tree. Red tie being blown by the wind. Clear, pressed black suit. Appearing to stair at the group. From this distance Harold could not make out the face, besides he appeared pale.

The man began to wail, aiming his shotgun into the trees where Harold saw the figure.

"Wait, no!" cried Harold.

The gunshot seemed to deafen Harold as both barrels flared, ripping apart the forest ahead. As if knowing, the figure dipped behind the tree once more, the bullets doing nothing.

"Stop!" yelled Harold, running off in the direction of the figure, "Torchwood! Halt!"

"Lieutenant… NO!" cried Wilhelm behind Harold as he dashed into the forest.

Harold could feel his breath beginning to catch, so he had to calm his mind. He began controlling his breathing, like he learned in France. Running through the woods, his eyes looking for him.

The well dressed figure ducked back behind a tree further ahead of him.

He raised his pistol and fired a shot.

"STOP!" he yelled, "Torchwood! I will catch up to you!"

He leapt over a log. A few steps later he plowed through a few thorn bushes. There it was again, ducking behind another tree. A Shadow seemed to glide past overhead, rushing ahead of him. His revolver turned, allowing him to fire again. And again. He kept running.

He didn't know how long he had been running, but he tripped, falling face first into a clearing. Looking up, he could see a shed… then a house. He was in the backyard of the eye witness. Looking around, he saw the back screen door slam. It was hiding in the house.

"STOP!" yelled Harold, scrambling to his feet once more and running towards the house, "TORCHWOOD! I will fire upon you!"

He nearly crashed right through the screen door to get into the house. He blinked profusely. The evening lighting cast shadows everywhere. No candle was lit, no electric lights were on. Darkness. Darkness his eyes had not yet adjusted to.

He moved his revolver around in the house. Looking. Blinking.

A pot fell in the kitchen. Without thinking, Harold turned and fired a shot through the door, embedding it into the electric refrigerator. Through the flash of the pistol… he saw him. Quick glimpse. Standing above the couch in the living room. Head bent against the ceiling. Legs long. Arms… so many… arms.

Harold spun around, his heart stopping. Cocking back his revolver. Nothing… No figure. Room empty.

The front door clicked shut. Harold's eyes widened. He couldn't let this get away! He rushed for the door, yanking open the fading wooden door. Behind him he could hear Wilhelm stammer through the back door.

"Harold, please… no!"

Harold pushed passed the screen door, rushing out to the porch. He was blinded by light, a shine of light. He raised his pistol. Blue lights flashed across the scene. Green lights also joined in.

"Freeze! Torchwood!" he yelled.

"No, you freeze!" cried a voice amplified by a megaphone, "We're Torchwood!"

"Don't move, CIA" cried another voice.

Harold's eyes had to blink some more, and he took in the scene around him. Four or five cars filled the road and yard of the house. On the road, police cars had blocked off the area, officers with rifles and shotguns running back and forth. A lot of people, officers and agents alike, filled the yard. Taking cover and aiming rifles and shotguns at Harold.

Some of the vehicles were pure black, like Harold's Plymouth Tucson. Only the ones from Torchwood had green siren lights, while the CIA's were unmarked.

"Drop your weapon, Lieutenant." Said the loud voice.

Harold looked to his left and right, looking for the figure. Gone. The man was gone. No suit, no tie. No face. He looked around once more, he couldn't see anything.

Behind him Wilhelm walked out of the house, his pistol holstered and his hands up.

"We'll say again," said the familiar voice, "This is Captain Damian Yelric. Lieutenant Harold Norman and Sergeant David Wilhelm: Drop your weapons. Please…"

"Did you see him?" asked Harold, looking down at his revolver, "You must have, Captain."

"Harold… please. Listen to me," said the Captain, "Drop… your weapon!"

Harold saw he had fired every last bullet. All six. He looked to Wilhelm, who retrieved his gun and threw it off the porch onto the lawn. Harold looked back into the house, before letting his go. It clattered on the porch before rolling down the steps and resting on the lawn.

Harold entered a daze like state. Some CIA grunts hand cuffed them, slamming them face first into the grass. Harold could hear some people arguing, before his fellow Torchwood agents picked him up, brushed him off, and escorted him to one of the vehicles. He doesn't remember seeing Captain Yelric.

In the back of the car, he looked back at the house. The eye witness cried softly by a window. A full grown man. The Torchwood agents ignored irate CIA grunts as the went about scanning and taking photos. Wilhelm was cuffed, but was off to the side of the house. He was being questioned and grilled by CIA and Torchwood agents.

No one else saw it. A faceless figure. Standing… maybe… three feet away. Just over the eye witnesses shoulder. Starring… knowing. Harold's eyes narrowed on it. He could feel its gaze. Then… it seemed to meld with the darkness, taking steps back into the house.

"Case: NOV 7-200832. Lieutenant Harold Norman, Torchwood Agent since 1943," read out Captain Yelric, "Write this down perfectly, alright? This is for the records."

Harold looked around the room. He was in the main HQ. Torchwood: Boston. It was a nice, open room. He stood in chains, down to some prison pants and a white undershirt. Captain Yelric stood not far away, reading from an envelope. Corporal Smith typed on a Torchwood Typewriter. Instead of inked keys, lasers and light lit up the paper, scanning in the record of the trial.

Standing around the room were probably the most powerful men in the world. Director Smith from the CIA stood with his goons in the corner, admiring the head quarters of Torchwood. Director J. Edger Hoover sat on a panel in front of Harold. The FBI ignored the urge to marvel at the stuff around them, and they just shuffled through papers. These two forces were only the smallest portion, however.

Torchwood Motherland was here. They consisted of Torchwoods One, Two, and Three. From Three, Cardiff, sat head Director William Walpole and his associates; a man in his late twenties with a large, military overcoat (quite possibly a Captain, thought Harold) and a scrawny woman with a monocle. From Two, Glasgow, were Director Ailean (Alan) Buchanan and his Irish assistant, Meredith McFeal (renown for her research in mood and pheromone altering alien technology). And From Torchwood One, London, were Administrator Laurie Burbank, Admiral William Holst, and Chief Liaison Captain Arnold Burbank (Laurie's Husband).

This was big, Harold knew. You don't get the most powerful team of people on the planet in the same room together unless it was important. Captain Yelric was nervous, he could tell. Leader of Torchwood Nine, and the entire world pressing down on his shoulders.

"Lieutenant, you have been with us for nearly Seven years," started Yelric, "And now it all comes to an end. I am sorry to say that I made a mistake with you."

"Let's keep this professional," cut in Mrs. Burbank.

"For Christ sake, woman, have a heart," barked Yelric, who adjusted his tie and continued, "Your efforts in the war were rewarded with active duty as a Torchwood Lieutenant, son. You understand, however, why this must be done?"

"Because you think I am crazy," said Harold, his fists clenching.

"No! Your work on Der Ritter has little to do with this," cut Yelric, "It's your manor. Conspiring, insubordination, free lance work! Damnit, man, you give me no choice. Your actions have put Torchwood at risk every single day! Der Ritter? New York's Pig-Men? How about that Canadian Dalek?"

"All successful, sir," said Harold.

"MOST successful, and barely still," said Yelric.

"Complete disregard for the American people," added Director Hoover, "The countless amount of damage done. What about these innocent lives lost?"

"And national security!" Smith yelled out, "What if those goddamn reds found out about this!"

"Gentlemen, please," Mrs. Burbank hushed them, "That discussion is for another time."

"You have a disregard for Torchwood chain of command," continued Yelric, "Unregistered missions, misuse of alien technology, and ignorant disregard of Torchwood interrogation procedure."

"Your actions have affected your… partner?" asked Burbank, the Torchwood board looking confused, "Americans… you and your ranks."

"I don't understand," asked Harold.

"Sergeant Wilhelm will be under evaluation next," Yelric said, starring down at his boots, "I'm sorry. His actions were his own."

"He followed my orders half the time," said Harold, his heart starting to race, "It's my fault! Add his sentence to mine. Let me take it, he's a good agent!"

"He's a follower," said Yelric, "But he's a good man. His actions were his own. He will be tried. So, in closing: Insubordination, high treason to the United States of America, your controversial work on Der Ritter, conspiracy to contain an unknown entity of terrestrial or alien origin without permission of superiors on Torchwood ground."

Yelric stopped, sighing. He turned away from Harold, closing the envelope in his hand.

"How do you plead?" asked Yelric.

"Please, you have to believe me, I saw him again," said Harold, "Der Ritter is real, you understand? I saw him, people… saw him. More will go missing if you don't take me seriously!"

"Damnit, man! He's not real!" yelled Yelric, throwing the envelope at Harold.

As papers filled the air and began to flutter to the floor, Burbank sighed, taking off her glasses. There was a shuffling in the room.

"Lieutenant Norman," said Director Walpole, "You have been diagnosed with PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."

Harold looked at him, his eyes going cold.

"Der Ritter… is a myth, mate," continued Walpole, "During your time in the war you witnessed… much. Your experiences there and then with Torchwood have driven them to an obsession in one outlet you can handle. This… man. This… Der Ritter."

"No," said Harold, pushing against his restraints, "NO! I saw him… he is real."

"No, Lieutenant," Walpole whispered, the entire room going quiet, "There's no readings, no physical evidence, no rift activity. You're after the boogie man. He doesn't exist!"

"We have enough stuff to worry about then rouge agents, Mr. Norman," said Burbank, "Ones I wish to get to the bottom of, right away! What do you plead, Harold Norman."

"No guilty!" Harold spat through his teeth.

"Irrelevant," said Burbank, "Cardiff, how say you?"

Walpole sighed, "Guilty."

"Glasgow."

"Guilty."

"Boston."

Yelric closed his eyes, walking away from Harold and towards the table of executives.

"We find him… Guilty," said Yelric.

"London finds you Guilty!" Burbank said.

"And we must agree," Director Smith said.

"Irrelevant!" barked Burbank, "Mr. Harold Norman, you are now dishonorably discharged from Torchwood!"

Harold was surprised that he felt his heart dropped. His entire life… gone. He looked around. He suddenly didn't care about being right.

"You are stripped of rank," Burbank continued, "You will be incarcerated at your place of origin. Cryogenic sleep. You will forever be held until a proper use or punishment can be found in the future. You will be unmarked… un named. A Prisoner."

"As per Torchwood Protocol," she continued, "Rest in knowledge that you will be forgotten. Records, possessions, licenses, certificates. You will be erased from record. You will be only a memory, and soon even that will be sponged. You will have no birth date, no war record, and your Torchwood records will be added to the pile of agents whose fate you now join!"

"No," Harold cried, pulling against the straps that held him, "My family… my neighbors!"

"Your girlfriend and Bastard son will be dealt with," Burbank continued, "And… their fate will be yours. Harold Norman, you no longer exist! Prisoner Ninety-Nine, Ninety… Nine? Really? Prisoner Ninety-Nine, Ninety-Nine, Nine; you are hereby sentenced to cryo! Take him away!"

Harold struggled as four large agents came forward, lying back the board he was strapped to and turning it into a stretcher and they began wheeling him out of the room. Harold looked back, seeing the group now meeting up, Director Smith and Director Hoover enter an argument with Burbank and Buchanan.

There he was, out of the corner of Harold's eye. The figure. Standing back, by the door. By the elevator door. Just… looking.

Another's head jerked that way. Harold turned to look, that man… that Captain from Torchwood Three. He jerked his head, looking at the elevator. The figured ducked away, and Harold wondered if he had seen it.

The man turned his head, looking at Harold, and their eyes met. Then he knew. As Harold was wheeled out of the room he thought he saw the Captain asking the woman and Walpole to follow him by the elevator.

But he didn't care anymore. Forgot all about it. The men wheeled him down the corridor, and put him to sleep with anesthetic. He awoke some time later at the holding facilities; some few blocks away from the headquarters, where the long-term storage was and the cryogenics facilities. He was already laying in a Cryo tube, getting hooked up to the life support systems.

"I was in cryo once," said the masked guard next to him.

"Fuck you," murmured Harold.

"No, really," said the guard, "Everyone expects it to be cold. But this… this is gonna burn!"

Just like that, the work was done. The tube door shut, and it got chilly. The glass frosted over, and his body felt like it was set on fire.

The door flew open in the cryo tube, and Harold gasped as he vaulted from the tube. He hit the cement hard, but he didn't mind as he frantically patted at his burning body.

Harold let out a cry, wriggling on the ground. The burning didn't seem to stop. A constant burning. He coughed and begun to shiver as the burn turned into an unbearable chill. His throat felt so dry. He could almost feel it cracking as his cries died down.

A figure was over him in seconds, pouring a liquid into his mouth. At first he tried to pull back, coughed up the liquid, but thirst took over and he reached out for the capsule and began to swallow in between his gasped for air.

"Woah, woah," cried the figured, who now tried to reclaim the capsule, "If I knew you were going to be this high-maintenance I would have left you in there."

Harold stayed on the floor, listening as is muffled hearing began to return. He was aware of an awkward silence, and the footsteps as the man paced around him.

"Alright, I can see you're gonna need some help," said the voice, a man's voice, "Look, I want to warn you. This isn't any funny business. You might feel a slight twinge."

A needle was plunged into Harold's buttocks, the first time he actually realized he was naked on the floor. Before he could yell out in pain he felt his eyelids slam shut and his body felt heavier then lead.

As quickly as he couldn't move, he was in full control of his body. He opened his eyes. He was in some sort of medical room, an examination light above him, but turned off. He quickly sat up, looking around. He was dressed now, in what appeared to be old, moth tattered prison pants and a shirt. His nose scrunched at the feeling of it, and he looked around the room. Cobwebs and dust seem to litter the whole place, including the lines that were in his arm. They appeared to be some sort of medical IVs. He was about to stand when a figure entered the room. He was a tall, late twenties male with raggedy hair. He wore a blue button down shirt with suspenders and a holster strapped to his hip. He also had a large grey overcoat on, looked military esque.

"Y-you…" muttered Harold, trying to point, "I know you."

"Give yourself some time," said the man, "Your memory could be a little foggy. Although you'll be a lot better once you're rehydrated."

"Where am I…" asked Harold.

He brushed some dust off the bed in which he had been lying, and scrunched his nose at the resulting cloud of dust.

"When are you more like it," said the man, "You are right where we left you. You are in Torchwood Nine's Cryogenic Facility and Internal Prison."

"They sure let the place go," said Harold.

"Indeed, more true then you know," said the man, "The date is November 8th."

"Wow, an entire day," said Harold.

"The year is two thousand and nine," said the man.

"Jesus…" Harold murmured, "Have I been out of it."

"Exactly, that's why I'm here. My name is Captain Jack Harkness," said the man, "Do you remember who you are?"

"I… I believe I was Harold Norman."

"Was? Still are. Prisoner 99,999, or Ninety-Nine, Ninety-Nine, Nine, was forgotten years ago."

"How come?" asked Harold, "Why bring me back?"

"It's a long story, Harold. Can I call you Harold? Maybe you go by Harry?"

"Don't you even think about it."

"Well, I have to get you in some more normal clothes and get you back to the hub for debriefing," Jack said, ducking out of the room before returning with a pile of clothes, "I don't want to worry you, but a lot has changed. I figured waking up in semi-normal clothes for you would be ok but that's all they had here. While you recovered I went shopping."

"Good, feels like I climbed out of a coffin," said Harold, taking off the awkward white shirt and casting it aside.

"Well, you sort of have," said Jack, smiling, "We might as well consider you the world's fifth zombie, eh?"

"A what? Zombie?" asked Harold.

"Christ… yes we got a lot to go over. Back at the hub, anyway."

"You European, right?" asked Harold.

"Yes, Whales."

"Thought so. It's called a Headquarters, or HQ," said Harold, "That 'hub' stuff gives you away."

"Well, it's alright. Let's go."

On the surface, Harold felt really out of place. The jeans he was wearing didn't fit perfectly and the stupid new shirt he was given itched.

"Once we get back to the 'HQ' we can located your personal possessions in the vault. You are the guys with the vault, right?" Asked Jack, walking on ahead through the new streets of Boston.

"Yeah," stuttered Harold, looking around, "I think…"

Boston looked different. The cars were louder and looked smaller. The trucks looked somehow bigger. Harold scoffed at a group of scantily class women who passed him, and marveled at how suits and coats seemed to have been replaced with jeans and tee-shirts.

"As I said, a lot has changed," said Jack, "And even more changes are coming. The United States has become… faster."

"Speaking of faster… where are the others?" asked Harold, "Why are we walking? Where's the cars?"

"As I said," continued Jack, "This is much faster. Traffic and all."

Harold followed Jack through the streets of Boston, which seemed oddly different to Harold. Moving screens and brand new billboards decorated large, multi-leveled buildings that seemed to have been built on top of the large sky-scrapers Harold remembered.

They rounded a corner, and Faneuil Hall could be seen down some steps and across a street. Harold smiled, recognizing the building.

"Have I ever mentioned how much respect I have for you guys," mentioned Jack, smiling, "Out of everyone, you guys put your HQ smack in the middle of a marketplace! A busy one too."

"Pain in the ass during peak hours," said Harold as Jack hit a button next to a traffic light.

"One thing an old friend taught me," Jack said when the walk light turned, "Sometimes the best way to hide from the public is to be in plain sight, right in the crowd."

"Good idea, but doesn't always work," Harold laughed as they made their way around the hall.

"We once moved an entire shipment of Ciberman corpses through the Macy's Day Parade once to get them to the rendezvous point," said Jack, smiling, "On TV and everything. Who asked questions?"

"Nobody," asked Harold, laughing.

"Didn't even have to flash a badge. They let us just… drive on in," continued Jack, laughing at the memory, "Me and Rick just got out of the back and stood on top for security. Smiled and waved the whole way, right to the rendezvous."

"You're a weird one, Captain," said Harold, smiling, "Here we are… home."

Quincy Market. Full of life today as the last day Harold had walked it. Tourists and workers and men in suits all running about inside the small marketplace. Harold was surprised to see how much had changed and, right next to it, what always seemed to stay the same. Butchers and Bakers and Farmer's were now replaced by restaurants, though. Pizza marts, Japanese restaurants, candy stores, a Pub, and even the fruit stand was replaced by some sort of coffee thing. Jack seemed uninterested, though.

Jack smiled and even greeted several of the tourists and people he passed. Many looked at him in a strange sort of confusion, but a few foreigners smiled and greeted him right back, him returning their greetings in their own native tongue. Harold wanted to smile, but couldn't shake an odd mistrust. Who was this strange man. Jack Harkness… from one of the Motherland Torchwoods? How did he remember him?

Jack entered the middle area. A grand, open ceiling showed beautiful architecture that Harold remembered. Many of the adverts and decorations hadn't changed at all. Jack began scrambling up a winding staircase to the second level, and Harold followed. Up here people were doing like the ones below. The entire area had been transformed into a common room type places. Tables and Benches and chairs littered the area with businessmen having meetings over lunch, families trying to control screaming children as they ran around, students trying to read from a textbook, and even a lone man taking pictures of all the mishap.

Jack said nothing as they walked to a small corridor, and turned beside it where the old Torchwood ladder used to be. Harold's heart stopped, though.

Instead of a brick wall, there was a door. Looked like an elevator door. Jack noticed his recoil and smiled.

"You alright?" he asked.

"What happened to the wall?" asked Harold, "They just… put in an elevator and took away our secrecy?"

"Well… sometime after you were frozen, years actually, they figured putting in an elevator would aid the handicapped and what have you," answered Jack, pulling hard on a brick beside the elevator, which slid aside, "What was left of Torchwood Nine at the time decided to fund it. Put in an elevator. The next day it was in full use. Covers the entrance a little better, though.

The brick slid aside, showing a small keypad. Jack typed in some numbers and struggled to close the brick again. He made some joke about having to fix that before the elevator came on and opened. Inside was just a normal elevator, empty.

"That pad insures it will be empty and no one else can call it to stop while we are on our way down," said jack, stepping in with Harold right behind.

A few women tried to get on too but Jack held out his hand and flashed a leather wallet with ID inside, "Sorry, ladies, you'll have to get the next one."

He hit a button marked 'Door Close' and the door shut out the women. He then pulled back the control panel where a thumbprint scanner was hidden. After pushing his thumb to it, the Elevator began to move, and it plunged into the depths.

"This'll be better then climbing down a ladder everyday," joked Harold,

"Maybe, but where's the fun in that?" asked Jack, smiling, "No awkward encounters when you try to go up and someone else tries to head down and you have to wiggle around, some awkward glances are shared."

"Never happened to me," stated Harold.

"Well, you obviously are not up many ladders, then," said Jack, before smiling, "Not recently, anyway."

The elevator descended for some time before it hit the lower level. It opened out into a small room with a bench, and then a large door was ahead of them. They got out of the elevator and it closed, heading back up immediately.

"Here we are," said Jack, walking forward.

Harold rushed forward, grabbing Jack's arm, "Wait, wait, wait. What if it all changed? How will they all react to me? I mean… I was exiled and all. I just-"

"I don't think you'll have to worry about that," said Jack, laughing a bit.

"But what if… they're… weird and future-y."

"As I said… you won't have to worry about that."

Jack through open the door, walking through into the HQ. Harold took a breath then followed him inside.

"You guys need a bigger door," said Jack, "You know what you need? A big vault door. We have a big vault door."

Harold looked around the old HQ. Empty. Very empty. All around the HQ dust and cobwebs gathered. Some strange screens were set up where old desks used to be. Cabinets and lockers now gave way to these window-like screens and a few sofas.

Then there was the spot. It was yesterday… for Harold. He had been there. Starring towards where he stood. Judged. Now a series of large window-like screens covered that space. The spot where the panel of 'judges' had sat now held theater-like chairs. Off to where Jack walked off to was the area where the doorway used to hold the vaults. Now Jack walked up to a panel beside a fenced off area, the vaults now sealed off and filled with what looked like a giant metal pulley system.

After the terminal turned on, Harold could see that it didn't have dials and gauges but one large screen. Jack began typing things on a typewriter like pad on it and numbers and letter flashed on the screen like lightning.

"Where… where is everyone?" asked Harold.

"Umm… Gone," said Jack, "They're gone."

"Gone," said Harold, almost as a question, "For a few years it looks like."

"About right," said Jack, looking around, "Maybe longer. Wouldn't be surprised."

"How come?" asked Harold.

Suddenly the pulley system began to move, and Jack smiled, standing aside. After maybe a minute of nothing a conveyer belt below the pulley system turned on and began spinning. The pulley brought a large box up, the size of a suitcase, and dropped it onto the conveyer built. By the time it reached the end the whole contraption began to die down and slowly shut off.

Jack picked up the case and smiled, the showed it to Harold.

"I knew they wouldn't dump it, just in case," said Jack, "Here, you remember where the bathrooms were?"

"Yeah, over there I think," said Harold, taking the case from Jack.

"Well they were demolished to make room for a larger Armory. Americans…" chuckled Jack, "The new ones are that way. Locker Rooms. Go get changed into something you are more comfortable with and then head over here for debriefing, alright? I'll see what I can do about some lights and power."

"Wait, what is this?" asked Harold, looking it over.

It looked old, but the suitcase also was a newer brand, one Harold didn't recognize. On the top it had branded on it the letters 'HN' and the numbers '99-99-9'.

"It's a lie," said Jack, "Proof that you weren't entirely erased. Your last known possessions, maybe some paperwork on your case, and what you were wearing the time of incarceration. I'm sure they still fit. So go on, now."

Harold looked up at Jack, who turned away and walked towards the other side of the HQ while Harold turned and headed for the locker room.

Harold shut the door behind him, looking around at the lockers and the benches inside. He sat the suitcase down and struggled getting the latches to open. He heard the sound of air escaping, or entering. He realized it must have been air tight inside the case. He opened it.

Inside he found just as Jack promised. His slacks, undershirt, tan button down, tie, blazer, vest, and even his brown wool great coat all somehow fit inside and he laid them out around him and eagerly stripped himself of the strange tight jeans and weird shirt he was wearing. Two pairs of socks were also in there; at first he thought was a courtesy but then he found a vanilla envelope. It was empty, besides to give a name: one H Norman, and to connect him with prisoner 99-99-9. It also stated all that could be recovered from his personal possessions were inside. Dated 1967.

Harold shook his head, sighing. He looked around the case. A few pennies, an old note, a key on a chain, and a photograph. Harold picked up the picture, and his eyes began to water. It was the picture he always kept in the car. His Girlfriend, Dianna. She smiled and looked down at their newborn child. He had starred at it for a long time. Harold dressed himself, looking at the picture. They would be dead by now, or his child would be very old.

He picked up the old note, starting to grey with time. He opened it up, and saw it was a letter.

_Dear Lieutenant Harold Norman,_

_ It's me. Sergeant Wilhelm._

Harold gasped, nearly dropping the paper. He tried to smooth it out across his knee so he could read it better, but the shorthand looked to have been written in a rush.

_Dear Lieutenant Harold Norman,_

_ It's me. Sergeant Wilhelm. Well… Deputy Director Wilhelm. I was a Captain for a little bit but the FBI and all. Look, it has been quite a while since we last spoke. I shall be quick. I shall be Director Wilhelm soon. At the end of this year. I've been stream-lining a lot of new orders. Like the new vault, and the new way we catalogue the dead. That's how you, or someone aiding you, will be able to find this.  
Look, Norman. I am leaving a few things for you. One is the key to my safe. In there might be a variety of cash, desk notes, some treasures, and photo albums, depending on when you get this. But the important thing is THE CASE is in there. Now, look, I know we were onto something with it but… you need to let that go, Harold. A lot has changed and I need you at your top game again. You can't let it consume you, consume your family. So please… I beg you not to open it._

_ Also I need to warn you. I am leaving signs, hard to follow… encrypted messages. You are a good man. You are trustworthy. A lot of bad things are happening here. I don't know if you will ever get this, but if Torchwood is to survive you have got to help them. We're being run over, taken apart. Those from the past seek to destroy us. The Government doesn't trust us anymore. They've begun to dismantle us. The Motherlands… they are not helpful either._

_ Harold, in the top of this case is the only thing you can trust, and you probably do not have one yet. Make sure you know who your enemy is… I may be long gone when you get this._

_ Good Luck._

Harold's heart jumped. Those from the past? Captain Harkness… he thought it through. That's it. That coat… military. He remembered it. Too Military for normal Torchwood Motherlanders. He was there.

Harold turned over the note, where he found printed 'Where we had our first and last coffee'. Harold smiled, then looked at the back of the case. The case didn't seem to have anything, no way into it again, so secret compartments. After trying for a minute, Harold sighed.

"Why on earth didn't you make it clear how to get in this thing," murmured Harold, looking at the note, "And why did you want me to remember 'The Captain's Diner'?"

Harold heard a click, then the inside of the case fell open, and out popped a revolver, and some bullet shells. Harold picked it up and examined it, then smiled. Wilhelm didn't believe in guns… could you believe that? Harold never went anywhere without his old revolver. Including Normandy. Nearly drowned due to the extra weight of steel and ammo.

Harold's smile faded when he heard Jack yell something back to him. He opened the cylinders and began to load it. Whatever happened here, that man knew it, and he didn't belong.

Vest, shoes, Gun. Harold stood, and packed away the rest of the stuff back into the suitcase. He zipped it up, and grabbed the overcoat.

"He's not the only one that can hide in a coat," said Harold, swiftly putting on the old, brown wool overcoat.

Something tumbled out of the folds onto the floor. Harold bent over and picked up a fedora, his old fedora. Inside was an older paper note that read "This was in the car," and then there was a smaller packed that fell out. Inside this one was some car keys wrapped in a note that read, "And now the car is in your hat".

Harold pocketed the notes, and put on his hat. The last thing he grabbed was the pistol. He pocketed in after putting the safety off. Then he walked from the room, leaving the case behind.

Walking out into the HQ, Harold saw Jack at one of the desks, typing on a keyboard. A few of the screens were on and Jack was starting to smile.

"Alright, lookin' good," said Jack, who leapt up from the chair and walked over to Harold, looking him up and down, "Well, looking good! I like the whole forties Noire feel. Takes me back a ways."

"Does it now," Harold said, "How far back exactly?"

Jack froze. Eyeing Harold, he put his hands up and began walking towards him.

"Hey, Harold," he said, almost at a murmur, "What's with the hostility? What did you see in there?"

"You," Harold pointed at Jack, "I remember you. I… saw you. You were there. That day. Yesterday… my last day!"

"Ok, Harold," said Jack, smiling, "I think I have some explaining to do."

"How did you get here?" asked Harold, his voice darkening, "You look as young as the day I saw you. You couldn't be more then… a week older. You were frozen."

"Now, Harold, I'm complicated," Jack took another few steps closer, "What's wrong? What did you see?"

"Where is everyone," said Harold, "Don't you lie."

"I don't know what you are talking about," said Jack, almost laughing, "There's a lot of history to cover, Harold. Now… calm down. What's in your pocket?"

Jack made a grab for Harold's hand, which he dodged and pulled out the revolver. Harold slammed the butt of it into Jack's face, making him fly back. Harold cocked back the hammer and took a stand, facing Jack.

"Alright, 'Captain Jack'," yelled Harold, "If that is your real name. What did you do? Why were you cryoed? How'd you get out?"

"Christ, Norman!" cried Jack, recovering from the blow, "You are making a huge mistake. I wasn't cryoed."

"Bull shit! Look at you. 2009? You better start talking."

"Look, I am warning you," said Jack, "I am going to explain everything!"

"Those from the past, that's what he said," said Harold, "You and I both are from the past. Both of us! And I'm not the one awakening random strangers!"

Jack pulled a revolver, pointing it at Harold, "Now, Smith and Wesson? Meet Webley."

Jack stared at Harold, and Harold back at Jack. There was a pause, neither shooting.

"Now, Harold," said Jack, "I can explain everything but you need to-"

Harold pulled the trigger, a single shot right in his head. Jack jerked back, before slumping over. Blood spilt across the floor and panel. Harold let out his breath and sighed, before looking around.

He seemed to be alone still, so he walked past the Captain's dead body and headed towards the desk.

"They always talk too much," said Harold, smiling, "They never think I'll do it. We're Torchwood. We shall always do it."

He looked at the screen, and down at the keyboard. A small bar was filling up the screen, and he looked at it in confusion. When it reached the other side of the screen, a window popped up prompting: "Would You Like to launch T.I.F.A.N.I.?" and a "Y/N" was below it.

Harold looked down at the keyboard in front of him and murmured "Tiffani… yes?". He hit the 'Y' key and the entire Headquarters seemed to sputter to life.

All the nearby screens flashed on, words scrolling across them. The lights flickered on, engines could be heard from deep below the base. Harold hung on, wondering what he had just done. Then a face appeared above him. It was a blue face of a woman, and he yelped, jumping back for a second.

"The Technical Interface for Facility/Armory/Network Intelligence is now online," came a booming, English voice of a female, "Now scanning personnel. Please state your name."

"Uh…" stuttered Harold, looking over the great face, "Harold Norman."

"No personnel by that name exist in our data-banks," said the voice.

"Uhh… Lieutenant Harold Norman?"

"No personnel by that name exist in our data-banks."

"What? Torchwood Agent Lieutenant Harold Norman. Badge Number: 32785?"

"No personnel by that name exist in our data-banks."

"Maybe I don't exist, then," said Harold, laughing, "I don't exist. What are you used for?"

"No personnel by that name exist in our data-banks."

"Are you joking?" asked Harold, almost laughing at his luck, "Ok… uh… Captain Jack Harkness?"

"Biomass and Voice Identification not a match for one: Captain Harkness of Torchwood. Intruder Detected."

"Wait, no!" said Harold, his heart beating, "Oh, no! This is not good. Uhh… Director David Wilhelm!"

"Biomass and Voice Identification not a match for one: Director David Wilhelm of Torchwood. Intruder Detected."

"Ugh!" Harold got a little antsy, he began to pace, "uhh… Prisoner Ninety-Nine, Ninety-Nine, Nine!"

There was a pause, and the machine waited. Harold's heart almost jumped. Then, the face turned to him and the screen ran alight with letters and numbers. Then everything went dark and the lights dimmed.

"Pass code recognized," stated the voice, "Director David Wilhelm, Torchwood order C76-1. New user: Lieutenant Harold Norman. Bioscan commencing."

A flash of blue light captured Harold and ran through him, causing him to jump, then it disappeared.

"Welcome to Torchwood, New User: Lieutenant Harold Norman," said the voice, "You may now use the Technical Interface for Facility/Armory/Network Intelligence and have access to the Headquarter of Torchwood Nine. How may I assist you?"

"Uhh… I don't know," said Harold, "I don't understand. What are… you."

"Question," stated the voice, "Answer: I am The Technical Interface for Facility/Armory/Network Intelligence, also designated Tiffani. I am the interface that connects this facility, originally Torchwood One: London."

"Torchwood One?" asked Harold, "So you connect us with London? I don't understand your purpose."

"Question. Answer: My purpose is to constantly maintain and upkeep many of Torchwood One's systems and routines to insure maximum efficiency of operations. I am a computer program of alien origin."

"So… Torchwood One's systems… so why are you here?" asked Harold.

"Question. Answer: After Torchwood One's destruction in 2007, The Technical Interface for Facility/Armory/Network Intelligence needed to locate a new home. Torchwood Two: Inadequate Servers. Torchwood Three: No Interface Intelligence System Detected. Torchwood Four: Unknown. Torchwood Five: Disbanded. Torchwood Six: Disbanded. Torchwood Seven: Disbanded. Torchwood Eight: Unknown. Torchwood Nine: Adequate Servers. Torchwood Nine was chosen for instillation. Full download was complete before Torchwood One's generators shut down."

"I don't understand any of this," asked Harold, "What do you mean destroyed? What happened?"

"Question. Answer: Torchwood One was destroyed during the Torchwood Nine designated event: Battle of Canary Warf. The Primary Objective, codenamed: 'The Doctor', was present, and assisted in the stopping of a Cyberman invasion and Dalek attack. After the attack, the Doctor Dismantled Torchwood One."

"What about Torchwood Nine?"

"Question. Answer: Torchwood: America was designated a failure by Torchwood One in March of 1960. With the United States of America getting too involved with their operations, and the loss of focus by Torchwood: America teams, Torchwood Nine and Torchwood Ten were ordered for immediate shutdown. Torchwood Nine survive many more years under American supervision and minimal contact with Torchwood One. Torchwood Nine has been inactive since early 2000."

"Alright," said Harold, "But where do I come in?"

"Question. Answer: Invalid Question. New User: Lieutenant Harold Norman was created by order of Director David Wilhelm before his resignation."

"What order?" asked Harold, "Show me."

"Command. Initializing."

The face disappeared, and the screens began to flicker before the one closest to Harold lit up, showing what looked to be paper files and pictures of himself. An older man's voice could be heard over the speakers.

"Torchwood Order C76-One," said the man's voice, "By order of the late Director David Wilhelm, I, Director Tom Rynom, hereby create into our system the user of Harold Norman, for the day he is re-commissioned. I wish to note that there are no known files or records on anyone relevant to this name, nor why Director Wilhelm was so adamant on its secrecy."

"Don't exist," murmured Harold, looking over the records.

All that was on a screen seemed to be a picture of his standing at the terminal, looking up at the face, and the files states the transcript of the man's order as well as documentation by Wilhelm about the secrecy of this user.

"Uhh… person… thing," said Harold.

"Error. Please refer to me as The Technical Interface for Facility/Armory/Network Intelligence or by the user defined shortcut: Tiffani."

"Fine, boss," said Harold, "Tiffani, show me all records pertaining to Lieutenant Harold Norman."

"Command. Initializing," Said Tiffani, and the screen flashed, but showed the same documents and picture as before, "Only relevant match: New User: Lieutenant Harold Norman. Joined: November Eighth-"

"No, no! This isn't it," said Harold, "Damnit! How about records pertaining to Diana Roebuck. Or her son, Allan Roebuck or Allan Norman?"

"Command. Initializing. Diana Roebuck: Files encrypted. Name not found. Status: Diseased."

Harold closed his eyes. He may not fully understand what Tiffani was going on about, but diseased meant the same in any situation.

"Allan Roebuck: Name not found. Allan Norman: Files Encrypted. Name identified- encrypted. Status: Confidential."

Harold's eyes opened, his heart jumping, "He could still be alive? Tiffani, what do you mean by filed encrypted?"

"Question. Answer: The files have been locked away deep inside the data banks. You do not have the clearance to access these files."

"But he's my son," Harold slammed his fist on the desk, "They are MY family, damnit."

"User: New User: Lieutenant Harold Norman does not have clearance for these files."

Harold turned around, his eyes searing with heat. He wanted to yell and scream. He could feel it welling up inside him. His lungs felt like they were going to explode. His heart racing and yet feeling so still.

"You knew the cost," came a voice from behind him.

Harold turned around, reaching for the revolver in his pocket, but finding only lint. He looked at the table where he left it. Jack sat on the table, lifting the revolver and smiling slightly.

"How," started Harold, now his heart truly stopping, "But I... didn't miss."

"Complicated," said Jack, examining the revolver, "Not Post World War Two. So… how on earth did you get a gun?"

Harold swallowed, gaping at Jack's forehead. The blood had been wiped away, and no hole seemed to be present in the smooth skin.

"It was… in the case," said Harold.

"That's against regulations, long term storage of fire arms in containers like that," sighed Jack, smiling, "Americans. Thanks for not plugging the suit though. Or the coat. Hard to find these in my size."

Jack laughed a little before pocketing the revolver, and securing his own revolver in his holster.

"That was pretty ballsy, firing like that."

"You wanted to talk, you weren't going to shoot," said Harold, "Also, your safety was still on."

"Interesting," said Jack, rolling his eyes, "So, now we got a ton to talk about. Let's start with enemies from the past, hmm?"

"You first," said Harold, "This damn lady is no help at all. What happened here? What has happened since 1950?"

"Wow," said Jack, smiling, "A lot of that you'll have to do on your own. I mean, where do I start? Cold war? Space? Women's Rights? First Contact? Well… official first contact."

"How about us?" asked Harold.

"Let's start fresh," said Jack, patting Harold on the shoulder and ushering him aside.

"And after that, Rynom accepted the end and for the first time in two decades Torchwood Nine was shut down," Jack sipped from a coffee cup, "Solidifying the American Government in control of all alien, supernatural, and… paranormal activities in North America, South America, and… thanks to your incessant need to control everything, the world."

"And… they just left everything here?" asked Harold.

"Yeah, kinda," answered Jack, "As I said before, back in the early sixties all of Torchwood's American branches were being heavily weeded out. The grand Torchwood One-esque operation you are used to here was quickly… dismembered. Between Torchwood One's cleanup and the U.S. Takeover Torchwood Nine was more of a nuisance report. In fact, what you'll be taking over should be looked upon as more-"

"Wait a minute, what do you mean?" asked Harold.

"Whah?"

"Taking over? What is this?"

"Well… Harry," said Jack, "I… I'm kind of putting you in charge."

"What?" Harold stood up, his eyes looking over the unfamiliar HQ, "Why? What purpose would I have for it? Who are you to put me in charge?"

"Me? How about I'm currently the only official Torchwood executive on the planet," Jack laughed, sipping from the coffee cup again, "I've only been apart of it for a few decades, right?"

"A few…" said Harold, eyeing him, "How long exactly?"

"Long enough," said Jack, crossing his arms and sitting back on the couch, "I've seen leaders come and go, but the Institute's reputation has changed for the worse. When I rebuilt Three, and then One fell, I knew it was up to me to insure it becomes a force of good. Arming the human race. Preparing them for the future."

"Isn't that what One already did?"

"Torchwood became more centered on arming the human race," said Jack, "And then it became arming themselves. Torchwood became a government all on its own. Their obsession with the prime objective was unhealthy. It became about the weapons."

"Isn't that what we're about?" asked Harold, "Isn't that all that is out there?"

"No!" barked Jack, surprising Harold, "There's just… so much more! You people… I want to throw the American card but I see it everywhere."

"So why don't you run it," Harold said, leaning against a desk, "Why un-thaw a convicted traitor. Bring him into the future."

"Because you saw it," said Jack, "You saw the corruption and you were able to fight out against it."

"That doesn't sound like me," said Harold, "Sounds more like Wilhelm."

"Who you think thawed him out?" asked Jack, smiling.

Harold shook his head, "You didn't…"

"Had his sentence reduced, he did the rest himself," Jack smiled, "You know, under him the Archives grew by 237%. That's amazing. His information was pivotal in expanding our own archives in Cardiff. In his time he also ordered more holding of alien prisoners instead of instant eradication. True, he also began retrials of the Torchwood Sex offenders, rapists, murders, and traitors. Dumping countless bodies in undisclosed locations after torture and death… driving the local law enforcement crazy, haha."

"But not me," said Harold, then he turned to Jack, "Why me?"

"I don't know," said Jack, "All I know is I… need help. And when I came looking for it, your name came up."

"I got put away for an obsession."

"Small charge, you got put away for constant disregard of your piers and countless write ups for insubordination and conspiring."

"I was the Lieutenant! I got Wilhelm put away as well. I was never trained for this stuff."

"Your rank was just a stupid game played by post War American Torchwood," said Jack, "He followed you because you were a leader. And he became a great leader as well. This isn't about them, though, this is about you. This is now."

"If you're so great why do you need me?" asked Harold, "I don't understand!"

"Harold, everything is changing," said Jack, "Twenty-First Century is when it all changes. We are not ready. The world is not ready. So, I'm going to need to find some allies."

"You… don't trust the United States?"

"I don't trust any government," said Jack, but a smile spread across his face, "The only one I trust less then the good U.S. is North Korea and they're not really a threat."

"So you need a mole on the inside…" Harold rubbed his chin.

"No," said Jack, then he smiled and put on a ridiculous southern accent, "I'm lookin' fer some law in the Wild west out yonder!"

"Cute."

"You see, Torchwood America was always about trusting that things on this side were being handled. Problem is, we lost control. You Americans believed in sharing secrets with your Government, working along side them. Soon, you were under their control and were biased," Jack got up and walked to the coffee maker, "You see, I want to re-establish you in control of Boston. However, it is time you demonstrated some restraint and play by my own rules."

"I see," said Harold, crossing his arms, "Like a pet?"

"Like a partner," corrected Jack, "Torchwood was always supposed to be separate. Aside the government, beyond the police, separate from all nation; Torchwood is a world-wide, no, a species wide organization for the benefit of the human race. At first we were the only ones with definite knowledge of alien life, then we were the experts on alien encounters. One day, we may well be just… a name."

"But still in control," smiled Harold.

"You really trust one government or any one man with the power over forty Big Boys and a planetary destruction device as well as the power to teleport anywhere they wish through time?"

"Jesus, we have that?"

"It comes and goes," said Jack, "It's… different. Anyway, it's things like this. I don't think humanity will ever deserve it. Torchwood will then… hide, house, dismantle… whatever you wish to say. Keep these weapons away from the public."

"So why me in charge, then?" asked Harold, "I don't even fit into this world of… computlies and television."

"Uhm, computers."

"Why not promote someone from Three? Your team, whom you trust."

"Because my team has… suffered recently," said Jack, his eyes going distant, "I'm unsure how well I'll be able to… function."

"Ah, small team?"

"Something like that," said Jack, snapping out of his daze and smiling, "Couldn't do the job without 'em. Anyway, that's why I need you, Harold. I came looking and your name came up."

Harold sighed, staring down at the floor.

"So?" said Jack, "You going to dive head first into this? A new world? A new team? A brand new adventure."

Harold looked up, shaking his head, "What if I can't? What if I'm… bad at it. What if I can't control a team? What if I can't adapt to all this… H.G. Wells future crap?"

"You will do fine," said Jack, smiling, "And I'm only an ocean away."

"Only?"

"Did I mention? I could be here in a day, maybe more," said Jack, "Maybe even less if it's really important."

"Not helping my future crap case, Captain."

"So, what do you say… Lieutenant," said Jack, smiling, "You want to take this under your own wing? Will you accept this?"

Harold leaned back, thinking, before looking around. What would happen to him if he said no? Back in the freezer? A bullet from his own gun? Then his heart froze. What if nothing happened. What if he was released back into the world. This strange, car and computerized world. First contact already happened? So what is going to happen to him? He had no where else. Even before his incarceration he had been out of the real world since the war. And… the war. Before the war.

Harold nodded, turning to Jack and sighing, "So, where do we begin? Do I do this alone or am I going to need to rebuild this thing."

"Let's get your team," said Jack, smiling.

"So, what. I put up a flier? Hire out a radio station."

"Craigslist might work better, but I doubt it," said Jack, "Lucky for you, I might know somebody…"


	2. Pilot Part Two

**Everything Changed**

**Part 2**

Harold Norman rubbed his eyes. It was too much, all this new stuff. He had spent the last 32 hours getting "caught up" while Jack was out all day. He had to eat a large amount of fast food for, what the receipt said, was the same price as a gallon of gas… times ten! While he ate he searched the internet, like how Jack taught him, and he researched the past he had missed. The start of this "Cold War". The Korean War. Vietnam. The Moon Landing. Rock and Roll and Elvis. The Beatles. Kennedy. Reagan. Clinton. Fall of the Soviet Union. Invention of the Internet. Back to the invention of television. First Contact. England's Christmases. Nine-Eleven.

He wanted to cry. Fifty Nine years. Music: Records, Tapes, CDs, MP3s. Films: Animation, War Dramas, VHS, DvDs. He read how his childhood became ancient history, and his history books became history itself. Evolution. Native Americans. Women's Rights. Civil Rights for blacks. Man, had life changed. And now they even had a Black President.

By the time Jack returned Harold was in deep thought, lying across a couch by the Armory.

"So, pulled some strings and Ianto did a fantastic job! Unfortunately we had to borrow some satellites to tap into the U.S. databanks," he put some bags down on a table, "Boy will I be paying for it when I get home. I'll tell you what."

"It must seem easy for you," said Harold, "Living through it all. Not understanding how it is to get it all at once."

"Focus, Harry," warned Jack, "It's a lot to take in but I'm sure it's not that bad. We have to get this place up and running again. After that you'll have… assimilation time."

"Fine," said Harold, sitting up, "I don't know what I was worried about. Fitting in. Only learned the Inter-webs today while kids can't go a day without it."

"Fastest way to learn," shrugged Jack.

"Ever heard of a library? A damn encyclopedia?"

"Yeah… sadly, many of them haven't. Anyway, let's get to work," Jack spread out some papers onto a nearby desk and opened one up, "So. Richard DeGama… He's the prime target here. He was in line to take over… well what you could call operations here until he… branched off. He now runs an organization called 'The Black Helicopters'. Not much is known about them besides they now control almost all of the alien tech and supernatural sightings in all of Mass."

"So why aren't you making him boss?"

"Taking control of a ruthless gang and throwing the rest of Torchwood into pieces? Yeah, I have no reason why I went through all the trouble to thaw your ass up," said Jack, "Anyway. I don't like his attitude about it, but you need the important equipment and personnel he took with him, and he won't be a bad asset either."

"Sounds like all he needs is a push in the right direction and possibly he could run this place," Harold shrugged.

"It's not like that," said Jack, "Anyway, let's forget him. After picking up his organization we'll need to get the current expert on Archival Expert: Juliet Rivers."

"Oh, come on now. A Woman?"

"What? Torchwoods' are full of women. How else do we have fun?" shrugged Jack, "Well… we can't all have a well dressed coffee… man to go home to."

"I know, I know," sighed Harold, "Gosh! Anyway, let's go. That sounds like enough, don't you think?"

"An army and an expert?" said Jack, "Sure, if you can control DeGama. The Black helicopters will be a great resource in standardizing operations here. Grab your coat, Harry; time is short so let's hit the road."

Harold nodded, adjusting his had and standing to get his coat. Jack threw a holster at him like he wore around his own waist. Harold brightened when he caught it, but frowned at its weight. Sure enough, the holster was empty. He didn't say anything before slipping it on his belt then putting on his large overcoat.

Jack waited for him to join him at the door. He smiled and held out a wallet. Harold picked it up and opened it. Inside was an ID, brand new and modern. A full color photo with his name and rank, a badge number, and when Harold moved the card back and forth he thought he could see a Torchwood 'T' shining across the card.

"Fancy," said Harold.

"Doesn't mean too much yet, that's a problem for later," said Jack, "Also acts as a credit card. Swipe it like this and you should be able to purchase a variety of things. Don't abuse it, though."

"Credit Card?" asked Harold.

"Ugh," sighed Jack, "It's… virtual money. We shall explain later. Anyway we need to make it across town to the docks where the Helicopters call home. I'll call a cab."

"Uh, how about we drive," smiled Harold, lifting the keys out of his pocket and dangling them.

"Where did you get a set of keys?" asked Jack, then he smiled, "You still remember how to us them?"

"Like it was yesterday," said Harold, "And the Motor Pool is this way, right?"

"Sure," said Jack, smiling, "Lead the way. Oh, but they call it the Garage now."

Walking into the garage was tough for Harold. The vehicles looked so different and alien to him. Dust covered most of them, and many of the parking spaces were taken up by desks and tool chests. In two spaces further down was a large black boat that looked like a smaller version of something he used not a week before his trial.

"Jesus," cursed Harold, "Is that a tank?"

A black armored vehicle was half revealed under a tarp, its cannon showing signs of dust.

"Yeah, overkill," said Jack, "They had some issues in the seventies."

"What kind of issues warrant the use of a tank in Boston?" asked Harold.

"Disco Fever," smirked Jack.

"Must've been some outbreak."

"So, what are we looking for," said Jack.

"A car," said Harold, "Left for me. I… don't see it."

"Tiffani, darling," said Jack, igniting a faint blue glow as the giant face of a woman appeared, "You know what the Lieutenant here is looking for?"

"Question. Answer: an attachment unread by New User: Lieutenant Harold Norman indicates a location that matches that of a used parking space in Motor Pool section B21."

"We have to fix that username," said Jack, "Anyway, that's over here. Let's go!"

Running up to the section in question, Harold could see many of the spaces were empty. As they rounded the corner of 16 and 17, Harold could see it. A vast amount of empty spaces, with only space 21 with a vehicle parked inside. Harold smiled, jogging up to it.

He ripped off the covering, revealing a shining black Plymouth Tuscan. In the faint florescent light the off-black lettering of TORCHWOOD on the side of the car seemed to shine. The windows were now black, surprising Harold. The front lights and the siren lights still showed a green tint to them. Harold turned to Jack, who whistled and put his hands on his hips.

"It's mine," said Harold, smiling, "It's my car. My baby. Old faithful. Well, that's not what we called her. We called her Linda, after Wilhelm's first love. That and she kept the LYNDA in the trunk. We were the first in charge of it."

"Really? You? The first to handle the Linear Yegric Nictar Defense Armament? That thing is… powerful."

"Well, we had it up until my vacation," said Harold.

"I like it, vacation," said Jack, "Anyway, does 'Linda' still know how to give a man a good ride?"

"I can't wait to find out," said Harold, approaching her driver's door.

When Jack was situated, Harold shrugged, smiled, and turned the key in the ignition. There was a faint start before the car turned over, its engine roaring up and rumbling in the parking spot. Harold and Jack smiled at the same time.

"Now, this I sorta miss," said Jack, "However, I figured Americans would get rid of this kind of stuff. Bigger vehicles and all."

Harold turned on the headlights, a bright lime glow illuminating the garage.

"Hey," asked Harold, "I can see… out the windows."

"Tinted glass, like sunglasses," said jack, smiling, "Come on, now. They aren't that new."

"They are to Linda." Said Harold, smiling, "I like it though."

He shifted into gear and pulled the old car out, and began driving."

"You know where we're going?" asked Jack.

"Out," replied Harold, "We're going out…"

Harold reached up and flicked a switch on the roof, the entire garage lighting up with a green strobe as the siren lights turned on. Harold switched the switch next to it, and the old siren began to turn, the garage filling with the scream. Harold smiled, pushing the gas and accelerating out of the garage.

The car pulled into the parking lot of the large building. The lights shut off and the siren died down. Harold pulled into a space and almost immediately got out of the car.

"How the hell can it take more then thirty minutes to get across the damn city with the siren and lights the whole way?"

"How the hell could you last thirty minutes listening to the siren?" asked Jack, "That's worse then Martha's Mother."

"Who's Martha?" asked Harold.

"Uh… no one, it's fine," said Jack, stretching, "Next time, I drive."

"Fine," said Harold, "Wilhelm drove anyway."

"Ok, so here we are," said Jack.

"This looks nothing like the docks," said Harold, staring at the beautiful marble building and the flags flapping in the harbor's breeze.

"Docks have changed," said Jack, shrugging, "Or it's just really good cover."

A loud, vibrating noise filled Harold's ears, and he looked up to see a strange black blob flying across the skies and hovering around the building.

"Explains the name," said jack, smiling, "Black Helicopter."

"What?" asked Harold, holding his hat, "That's a Helicopter? Helicopter is an object?"

"Let's go, Harry," said Jack, "We got a very interesting meeting ahead of us."

Jack wasted no time walking into the front doors, urging Harold along. As they walked in they both stood there with their mouths agape. The room was small, maybe the size of a trailer. One desk, with a very thin receptionist. She typed on a keyboard without looking up.

Jack looked at Harold, and shrugged, walking towards the counter. The woman never looked up, even when Jack leaned on the counter.

"Why, hello there, young lady," he said, smiling.

"Do you have an appointment?" asked the receptionist.

Jack almost seemed taken back by her cold response, but he cleared his throat and shrugged, his smile returning.

"No, but I think you'll find we won't need one. We're here for a Mr. Richard DeGama."

"I'm sorry, there is no one by that name here," said the receptionist, "Try a phonebook."

"Ooo," said Jack, holding his heart, "Darling… Well, I do think we are in the right place. The Black Helicopters?"

"Never heard of it. Leave, sir."

"Look, we're not exactly from around here," said Jack, then his sly coolness wore off, "And I know this playbook."

"Sir, I am ordering you to leave."

"Look me in the eyes and tell me that."

"Jack, you mind?" said Harold, pushing Jack aside, "Ma'am, we're Torchwood. We demand to speak with Mr. DeGama at once."

Her fingers stopped typing, only for a moment, but she didn't look up. Jack shrugged. Harold and Jack both pulled out their IDs at the same time.

"Look, Madame," said Jack, "We have the highest clearance and we know he's here."

Harold heard a smack, and Jack's eyes rolled into the back of his head. His ID slipped from his grasp as he slumped against the desk and fell to the floor. Harold turned and spotted a burly man over Jack's body. Before he could reach for his pistol he felt his head suddenly being hit before he lost control of his legs and watched as his head plummeted towards the desk.

Harold awoke in bounds. His face hurt and he tasted blood. Jack sat next to him, calm and collective, eyes forward. Harold strained against the rope but he fought the urge to scream.

"You alright?" asked Jack.

"Nose hurts," said Harold, "A bit tied up…"

"My doing," said a cold voice.

Harold looked around the room. They were in an old room, with dust and dirt smearing everything. Several florescent bulbs lit up the area. About four large men stood around them, three holding machine guns. Out of a murky window Harold could see what appeared to be a warehouse filled with figures and boxes and other such things.

"DeGama I suppose," said Jack.

"I'll ask the questions, Torchwood," said the man, looking over the badges, "Captain Jack Harkness. Cardiff. You're a long way from home."

"Love to travel."

"Lieutenant Harold Norman. Torchwood Boston, interesting. So what's two military guys like yourselves doing around here."

"Looking for you, Richard. Can I call you Richie?"

"You can call me, 'sir'," DeGama said.

"Dick it is, then," spat Harold.

"If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all," DeGama said.

"You are the one untied, I suppose," said Harold.

"What do you two want?"

"You, Richard," said Jack, "Just you."

"What for?"

"We're re-establishing Torchwood Nine," said Jack, "Under new order, under new law."

"Re-establishing Torchwood? No shit," spat DeGama, "And you want me…"

"The Captain, here, says you and your team would be the best help I would have of regaining a foot hold-"

"Your best hope?" asked DeGama, before he openly chuckled, "So, you want my might so you can put this… slick bastard rule my empire while I play second fiddle? That was your plan?"

"Richard, now let's stay calm," said Jack.

"Your Empire?" said Harold, smiling.

"What? You don't know? We got one of the Torchwood Motherlands down here and you don't even know. Even the damn USG knows about us."

"Americans," said Jack, "So, you seem to be the type that likes to brag."

"We profit," said DeGama, smiling wide, "Shit, you really don't know."

"You like to talk so much, tan-man," said Harold, "Why don't you speak."

"Get them up," DeGama ordered.

Harold felt the bonds being cut and he was pushed out of the small folding chair he sat in. Harold was shoved towards the window. He looked over to Jack, who was recovering from the same push. Jack straightened out his coat before taking a step up to the window. Harold looked over at DeGama, and decided to do the same.

Harold looked down into the warehouse. Down inside he saw row upon row of stuff. Besides guns and boxes and crates Harold saw an array of interesting sights. Futuristic tubes and alien weapons covered certain table-tops before they were packed into crates by handlers. Large tubes that looked like cryo-chambers held figures that Harold could not make out. Stone statues towered next to strange computer-generated images like Tiffani back at the HQ. Strange looking human-esque creatures wearing suits strolled through the isles, being showed the objects by other suited humans.

"My God," said Jack.

"We profit," said DeGama, "And so does the USG. The feds ask for a cut, and we give it to them. Meanwhile, we create the… platinum market. We control alien artifacts coming in and out of New England while pawning it, selling it, and buying it for uses of our own."

"You have an illegal black market for aliens and their artifacts," said Jack, "You're selling out to Blowfish? Really? Why is it always Blowfish?"

"Whoever will buy, Captain," said DeGama, "The US Government, the Russians, the Chinese, aliens, gangs, wealthy collectors. We have people walking through here all the time asking the question of 'How much do we have to give?'. More like pay…"

"What stops the feds from rushing in here and taking you out?" asked Jack.

"Fear," said DeGama through the teeth of his smile, "Fear of what we have. You see, Captain Jack Sparrow-"

"Oh, har har," laughed Jack, "I have never heard that one before. Please, let's write that down."

"Anyways, Captain," said DeGama, "No matter how many times they walk through our wares, they can never remember what they have seen."

"Idiots," said Harold.

"Sudden… memory loss," said DeGama.

"More like drugged," smiled Jack, "Amnesia Pills."

"Archaic, Captain," DeGama smiled, "Good to know Torchwood had something of use."

"What do you mean?" asked Jack.

"When I left Torchwood, I was sure to grab some souvenirs that would aid in future enterprise," DeGama walked over to one of the tables and picked up a large club-like object.

He held the handle and pointed the blunt end towards Jack and Harold. Harold could see a trigger on the stick, where DeGama's finger waited, and something that looked like eye-sockets for binoculars.

"This will wipe memories on the spot," DeGama said, smiling at Jack's tensed body, "Most of them know the drill. Once they finish looking around and we've negotiated their purchase, their memories are ours. They are informed of their deal and are shown their contract and they are given their merchandise."

"All the while never really knowing what else you had," said Jack.

"They are scared. The US Government, especially, was assured we had several weapons capable of ripping a hole into the fabric of time and space at the push of a button… or at the lack of pushing of another."

"All the while they never really know one way or another," said Jack.

"And they don't recognize our other clients," said DeGama, "Nothing feels better then forcing representatives of nations to bid against each other for items then wiping memories so they never even remember they were both in the same place at once."

"Brilliant," said Jack.

"Sounds dicey to me," said Harold, "Sounds… African. Like during the war."

"Vietnam?" asked DeGama, then he looked Harold up and down and shook his head, "Desert Storm."

"Try World War Two," said Jack, "He's a bit out of his time."

"Damn, boy," said DeGama, clapping, "You are out of it. You're like one of those Heroes on Call of Duty, huh?"

"Not a clue as to what you are saying," said Harold, "But you don't know a thing about me."

"Look, Cracker," said DeGama, "There's a few things you need to know about Boston now. Number One: You don't run it. Number Two: I do."

"So you decline our offer," said Jack.

"Tell you what, you keep out of my way and maybe make a purchase or two," said DeGama, "I'll let you run around and play Robocop or something. But something tells me you gentlemen don't appreciate my little operation here."

"We dislike your style," said Jack, "But what are we to do?"

"Nothing," said DeGama.

There was a period of harsh glances at one another. DeGama began to chuckle slightly, before he sighed. DeGama lowered the object in his hand, pointing it at the ground.

"I don't want to burn any bridges," said DeGama, smiling, "So I'll tell you what I shall do. You, Captain Sparrow, take Captain America over here back with you. You guys go play Drift Wood or whatever and run your British Empire over seas. When you want something, or you want to look around, I will give you the same courtesy as my other cliental."

"So you won't be returning Torchwood Property," said Jack, firmly stepping forward.

"It's my property now," said DeGama, crossing his arms and smiling, "But let me tell you what I shall do. I'll give you fifty dollars."

DeGama took a wad of cash out of his pocket. After flipping through it for a second, he tossed some bills at Harold, who tried to grab all of them before they fluttered to the ground.

"That way, you can burn those fucking old clothes and get some real attire," said DeGama, smiling, "And along with that, I won't erase your memory… this time. A sign of trust, from me to you. You'll be the only ones ever to be this far into my base of operations and walk out remembering even the wall paper."

Harold smiled, shaking his head, "You are a piece of work."

"Remember me," smiled DeGama, turning away from them, "Remember how you were beaten."

Harold felt large hands grabbing his shoulders and he was spun around and pushed behind Jack down a dark corridor.

Harold and Jack were shoved out the door they had came, the large guards shutting and locking the doors behind them. Harold picked up his hat from the ground, finding the fifty dollars DeGama had thrown cramped inside.

Jack stood up and began to walk towards the car.

"I understand why you don't want that prick running Boston," Harold said, stuffing the money into his pocket, "He needs a good ass kicking."

"That he does," said Jack, "He's going to be a problem with operations here."

"Woah, operations?" exclaimed Harold, "I can't take him on? Sure, he's a little prick, but he's dug in."

"He's arrogant," said Jack, "And he's dangerous. We can't have him running around Eastern America with the world at his feet."

"So the two of us are going to stop him?" asked Harold.

"Nope, you are," said Jack.

"Excuse me?" laughed Harold, "I don't even get half of his so-called English. How am I supposed to go up against his army?"

"Didn't you hear me? He's arrogant," said Jack, walking up to the car, "He doesn't have an army? He has technology that he's given to a bunch of High School drop-outs in suits and he has a ton of money. You, Harold, are a leader! All we need is to get you an actual army and put you against him."

"Wait, we're taking them down?" asked Harold.

"Keys," ordered Jack.

After Jack got into the driver's seat and complained about the difference of American road systems, he put it into gear and drove away from the docks.

"Listen, you have to get back what he stole," said Jack, "And we can not have the technology he finds to be used by himself but also we must stop it from being bought and sold around Earth. His actions thus far can ruin everything."

"Ok, I understand," said Harold, leaning back," So how am I supposed to get this army? That WAS my army back there."

"Well, I got an idea," said Jack, "We still have Juliet Rivers. I didn't see her there so it is unlikely she is with them. So… let's go find her. She might know where to find an army."

The car parked outside of the National Archives at Boston. The building looked small compared to the large sky scrapers of Inner Boston. Harold smiled as he approached the front entrance. Jack had a ringing from his pocket so he took out a small device he had called a "Mobile Phone".

"Hey, I got to take this call," said Jack, "It's Cardiff. Look, go inside and ask for Juliet. You'll know what to say."

"What? I don't know what to say."

"Are you kidding? A sly noire gentlemen like you? She doesn't stand a chance," smiled Jack, answering the phone, "Tell her you're a war hero. Ladies like that. Ianto, talk to me."

Jack turned away and began walking down the road. Harold rolled his eyes and turned to head up to the Archives. Harold was unsure what to say, but he checked to insure his nose had stopped bleeding and he fixed his tie.

He walked through the front door and walked up to one of the desks. A woman behind the desk looked up and smiled, almost giggling as Harold approached her. She blinked at him and blushed, twirling her dark brown hair.

"Hey there," she said, smiling, "I love the coat. It must be real toasty in there."

"Slightly," said Harold, his heart fluttering slightly.

"Antique?" asked the girl.

"Uhm… quite possibly," said Harold, "Seems brand new, though."

The girls eyes then seemed to shine at him and she chewed on a pen she was holding, "Steamy? Feeling a little… sweaty inside now?"

"Uhm… possibly," said Harold, adjusting his tie, "Excuse me, I'm not sure how that's relevant."

"Tiffany," said the woman.

"Excuse me?"

"My name, it's Tiffany," said the girl, her eyes fluttering.

"Oh… right, well I know a Tiffani."

"Not like me, you don't," she said, smiling, "I… guarantee it."

"I… agree," said Harold, "Not sure what this has to do… about me. Anyway, I'm actually here to see a Mrs. Juliet Rivers."

"No you're not."

"I'm sorry?"

"Doctor Rivers isn't seeing anyone, she's not married anymore, and she's boring," said the girl, who leaned forward and whispered, "I'm, however, on the market, available, and wild."

"Are you… look, this is important business," stuttered Harold, "I'm-"

"Not married, I see," said Tiffany, nodding at Harold's hand, which he held up to look at.

"I think we are on different radio programs," said Harold, stepping back and taking out his ID, "I represent Torchwood. I'm here about her-"

"Experience," cried a voice from across the room.

Harold turned to see a woman wearing a button down blouse and black slack pants. She had a stack of books in her hand and braided in a single column was a stock of dark brassy hair. He couldn't put his finger on a color, red or brown. Her face was rounded and her eyes were narrowed at him.

"Madame, I guess you are Juliet Rivers?"

"You would guess right, what do you want, Torchwood," said the woman.

"A moment of your time," said Harold.

"You've had a moment."

"An offer, then," said Harold.

Her head turned to one side, "I haven't heard the name of Torchwood in years. They don't run in America anymore."

"Want to change that?" asked Harold, his eyes narrowing to match hers.

There was a pause for a moment, before she tilted her head behind her.

"Follow me," she said.

"Hands off, Juliet," said Tiffany, her eyes not leaving Harold, "Please let me have this Romeo."

"Please don't," said Harold, Tiffany not showing any sign of hearing his plea.

"I need him for now, Tiff," said Juliet, smiling, "You might luck out and I'll get his number."

Juliet Rivers led Harold across the Archives and through rows of bookcases until she opened a door to a small office. On the door it read "Doctor Juliet Rivers". Harold said nothing as he stood by the door as she put down the stack of books behind her desk and she gestured to a chair across her desk.

"So," said Harold, "Doctor, huh? You a surgeon?"

"Oh, ha, ha," Juliet said, her laugh dry, "Not that sort of Doctor."

"Sorry," said Harold, "I truly did not know."

"So, who are you, Torchwood?" asked Juliet.

"Lieutenant Harold Norman," replied Harold, "Of Torchwood Nine."

"I don't believe it," said Juliet, "I was apart of Torchwood Nine for years. You're older… my age. I would've been there."

"You weren't."

"Torchwood's been shut down for years."

"Not Cardiff."

"Cardiff is Three."

"Look, it's a long story," said Harold, leaning back in his chair, "I was in Torchwood Nine… back in the forties. I was frozen in 1950. Captain Jack Harkness of Cardiff woke me up and put me in charge of Nine."

"Well, well," replied Juliet, "A Crimsicle."

"Cute," said Harold, "But it's not like that."

"You forget, you're not dealing with an outsider," said Juliet, smiling, "I know every inch of Boston, Torchwood and out. I hold records that go back for centuries. I know what those cryo-chambers are used for."

"Then you know my case. Prisoner 99-99-9?"

"I'm not that good, but I know your don't get frozen for being a good man."

Harold sighed, rubbing his forehead, "Look, I don't have time for this. Harkness said you were the person we needed. If you're going to get all upset, that's fine. We'll find our army another way."

Juliet started to laugh, a smile spreading across her face, "Army? Oh, that's good. You think I'm going to help you build an army? Oh I will let no such Torchwood rise here in Boston!"

"Without an army we can't bring down The Black Helicopters," said Harold, "And Jack is adamant-"

"Wait, wait, wait," said Juliet, leaning forward, her smile disappearing, "Did you just say you're taking DeGama down?"

"You know Dick DeGama?" said Harold.

"He was Torchwood."

"We know," said Harold, sitting straighter, "We saw him earlier today. He was very… unhelpful."

"You're going after him?" said Juliet, "He'll eat you alive. He's way too big."

"Harkness wants it done," said Harold, shrugging, "He says we can do it. With… an army at our side."

Juliet leaned back in her chair, starring at Harold, "You better not be shitting me."

"Language, ma'am."

"I will feed you to Tiffany if I find even a crack in your story."

Harold sat a bit straighter, looking out the door, "You're not serious, are you?"

Juliet laughed at his expression, before her face straightening again. Harold shrugged.

"You think you can go against him and win?" asked Juliet.

"No," said Harold, looking around, "I don't think I can survive a day in this damn city without help anymore. So much has changed."

"You want to stop him?"

"Don't you?"

Juliet nodded, her eyes darting to the floor, "Richard has done horrible things… and we all allowed him to go off and do them. We didn't want to stop him, so we all… followed his leave and left."

"Well, now it looks like you've created a monster," said Harold, and looking at Juliets reaction he leaned in, "Look, when the Nazi regime was plowing over most of Europe, a lot of people blamed them and the Russians and called them the monsters of Europe. However… are they to blame? Are they to blame anymore then the Italians, English, or French who allowed them to do it for so long? How about us,"

"This is ancient history."

"It applies," Harold crossed his arms, "Like it or not, you and the others who allowed this to happen are to blame. To be honest, even Captain Jack Harkness has a hand in this action."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Help me," said Harold, "Help me be a good leader. Help me… rebuild Torchwood. Hell, I don't care if you go your own way. But… at the least put me in contact with a few people who will stand beside me and take him down."

"You won't find enough who will stand with you," said Juliet, "And you won't find enough good enough who aren't already on Richard's pay roll."

"I shall do what I can," Harold nodded, "With what I can get."

"People could die," mentioned Juliet.

"People have died," said Harold, leaning back, "And I… I died a long time ago."

Juliet sighed, closing her eyes. She put her hands up to her face and leaned back in her chair. Harold sighed, fiddling with his thumbs.

"Alright," she finally said, opening her eyes, "I will help you bring down DeGama. Only that. I won't promise anything, and I will not allow you to effortlessly lead a team of people I help you get to their deaths."

"Good," said Harold, standing, "I will be sure no move is made against them without a definite plan of action. So, you better pack. This could take a while."

"So… that's it then?" asked Juliet.

"We're going to the HQ," said Harold, "Let's plan out our next move and let Jack know it's a go!"

"Fine, let's go," said Juliet, raising her hands in defeat, "But you might want to wait for me to pack."

"I'll just wait outside," said Harold.

"Fine, but you'll have to get passed Tiffany," Juliet smiled, nodding outside her office door.

Harold paused for a moment, "On second thought, perhaps you would like some man muscle to help carry things to the car."

"Oh, such a gentleman," Juliet rolled her eyes.

"What do you mean 'you're leaving'?" Harold yelled.

"Listen, I'm upset about this too, ok?" said Jack, removing a disk drive from one of the computers and putting it into the small duffle bag he brought with him, "But I only have two guys back there and too much depends on me at the moment. I'm sorry, but I have to go back and deal with that first."

"But you just got here, you just thawed me out," said Harold, "What am I supposed to do?"

"I just signed on to this," said Juliet from a chair, "I'm unsure I feel comfortable with the only person with any experience is about to walk out the door."

"Look, We all have priorities, alright? I am truly sorry, but dealing with some punk with a gun and a fleet of Helicopters isn't really the Rapture, now is it?"

"It was important enough to wake a man up," said Harold, "And almost get killed walking into DeGama's base!"

"You walked out of the Headquarters of the B.H.?" asked Juliet, looking around, "You did not mention actually meeting the man… and keeping your memory. Woah, he is way more dangerous now."

"Guys! You'll do fine," said Jack, backing up towards the door, "I have faith in you guys. You get a team together and get… situated. When I'm finished I'll make you guys a priority. DeGama can not be left alone, running even a single square foot of the world."

"What if he comes after us?" asked Harold.

"What if we're not safe?" asked Juliet, "What if those we include in this are not safe?"

"You'll be fine," said Jack, "Nothing is going to happen."

With that, Jack turned around and walked through the double doors and to the Elevator. Harold and Juliet listened to the elevator come all the way down, before heading all the way up.

They sat in silence for a good amount of time. Harold shook his head, looking at the door. Juliet fiddled her thumbs and looked from Harold to the area around her. After a good amount of silence, Juliet stood up and walked toward Harold.

"So, Lieutenant, we're here… alone."

"And?"

"And Harkness put you in charge," Juliet crossed her arms, "So… Richard?"

"You are right, given enough time he will, or already has, thought through the mistake of letting us go scott-free. If enough time passes, he may even decide to take action."

"And?"

"And he'll be watching us, either way. If not now, then he will soon. We have a limited time span to protect ourselves."

"Ok… so we run and hide?"

"Why?" asked Harold, turning to Juliet, "We are dead center in the city. We are under Quincy Market. How on earth are those Helithingies gonna fly down here? And they can't siege us. They can't assault our base with guns blazing. No air support, no mass numbers… their odds are as good as ours when we are down here."

"Ok… so we can hold out," said Juliet, pacing, "But the siege thing is wrong. We can't hold out in this tomb until Jack sorts out his issues. If they siege us we ARE stuck here."

"Wouldn't they have been here by now," said Harold, his eyes rolling with thought.

"What are you suggesting?" asked Juliet.

"My second year in the war we got cut off from our company in a barn," Harold sat down on a computer chair, holding out his hands to lay the battlefield in the dust of the desk, "We knew if we waited long enough we would be found. We were out numbered and outgunned. However, we realized early that they had not yet realized their mistake and found us out. We made the discussion in a matter of minutes to take the fight to them. In a matter of an hour we had single handedly crippled their back line and support armor divisions and began taking the fight to THEIR front lines. Once our allies realized what was happening, they ceased the retreat and double backed. We retook the battlefield and one the day because of our actions."

"Do you mean World War Two?" asked Juliet, "You were in W. W. Two?"

"Focus," said Harold, rolling his eyes, "If he has made the mistake of not making a move, even if he has surveillance on us, then we have the potential of not only taking him by surprise but crippling his major systems in a way where retaliation itself is impossible. We can cut the support to his machine and leave him gaping for air while we close in around him."

"I… am worried," said Juliet, "What if he has seen us. What if he's just waiting for us to make a move."

"He'll make a move regardless," said Harold, "You said it yourself. We could just stay here and starve, possibly add more people to this museum. Or… we can get a team and plan together and catch him by surprise."

Juliet thought only a moment before nodding, "I can't believe I got into this. Ok, leader, what's the first plan."

"We need a team, see what we have to work with," said Harold, shrugging, "So… you know any trustworthy and useful people?"

Juliet rolled her eyes, "Fine, I'll go take a look."

"I'm the Rookie," said Harold, shrugging, "I don't know anyone who isn't dead or in an old-home."

Harold got out of the car and waited for Juliet to walk up behind him.

"Alan Brinkley," stated Juliet, approaching the porch of the small house they were in front of, "He was the Technical Expert of our team. Knew everything. He could clean any gun, make any gadget, understood every gizmo. He also helped integrate Tiffani into our systems. She was a big help."

"Sounds great," said Harold, looking around the suburban neighborhood, "We used to have a few mechanics in my day; I could get under the hood too."

"No, no, not the same thing," said Juliet.

"Was in my day," said Harold.

Juliet knocked on the door, waiting for a response. When none came, she knocked again.

"Alan," she cried out, knocking even harder, "It's me, Juliet. Alan?"

After a minute of no response, she tried the handle, finding the door unlocked. She looked at Harold, who shrugged. She opened the door and then walked in.

"Alan," she tried again, "The door was unlocked. Alan? Alan Brinkley?"

Inside, Harold felt a little more at home. It was a nice, cozy home. Pictures and knick-knacks littered the home. Knitted blankets and flags decorated the space.

Following Juliet into the main room, Harold saw the modern aspects start to seep in. A television set sat in a corner, turned on to a station Harold held no interest in. Across from it sat a couch, and an armchair beside that. In the armchair slouched an old man. He starred blankly at the screen, ignoring the two visitors in the room.

Juliet caught her breath, but she said nothing as she slowly made her way across the room to kneel beside him.

"Alan," she said, her voice shivering, "Alan, are you there? It's me… Juliet."

"He's an ol' man," said Harold, pointing towards him, "Look at him. How old is he? He's ancient!"

"He's younger then you," snapped Juliet before returning to her calm tone, "Alan Brinkley, it's me. Do you remember me? Can you hear me?"

The old man's eyes seemed to roll to the side, looking at Juliet. Juliet brightened, but even Harold could see it was a fake smile.

"Hey," she dragged the 'e' out, "How're you, big guy? My gosh, it's been too long. How're you?"

He said nothing, he just stared on.

"He may be younger then me, but he's no use to us," said Harold, "So, strike one. Who's next?"

"Sshh," Juliet spat, before turning back to Alan, "I'm so sorry, Alan. He's kind of… a… uhm…"

"Asshole," Alan suddenly exclaimed, causing Juliet to jump.

With that, he smiled and leapt from his chair, causing her to fall back and it startled Harold as well. He raised his hands and let out a laugh.

"Juliet!" he exclaimed, before laughing again, "Oh, deer me, I am sorry. I just couldn't resist, little lady."

"Damnit, Alan," yelled Juliet, grasping her chest, "You bastard!"

"Oh, it ain't that bad," he said, chuckling to himself, "When you get to my age you'll take what laughs you can."

"I'll be sure to tell Helen on you."

Alan's face went a little rigid, and his smile faded slightly before returning, "Actually, you can't."

Juliet nodded for a second, before gasping, "Oh my God! Alan, I'm so sorry."

"Don't let it worry you," Alan threw up his hand to bat the conversation away, "It was years ago; shortly after retirement."

"Why didn't you tell us?" asked Juliet.

"We were busy," said Alan, helping her off the ground and hugging her, "We all were. There wasn't time. We all had new lives to lead."

"But… Alan," Juliet said, tears streaming down her face, "It's me…"

"Who are you?" asked Alan, trying to sway the subject.

"Lieutenant Harold Norman, Torchwood."

Alan's eyes seemed to shine, and he stood a little straighter, pushing Juliet back.

"Torchwood?" asked Alan, and his eyes turned to Juliet, "Explain."

"Lieutenant Norman here was apart of Nine," started Juliet, trying to wipe away her tears, "Back in the 1940s."

"Wow," said Alan, s smile returning, "Frozen? For what?"

"I have been told insubordination," said Henry, "But the details are dicey and… classified."

"Captain Harkness of Three woke him, made him leader," said Juliet.

"Leader," said Alan, and he smiled, "My God… we're getting the team back together, aren't we?"

"Jack wants us to reestablish some rule over here," said Harold, "We need to take back control from the US Government… and those Black Helicopters."

Alan's smile disappeared, he crossed his arms, "Richard's not on board?"

"Worse, he's an obstacle," said Juliet, "We're actually… going to try and shut him down."

"It's dangerous," said Harold, "The mere fact we're not leaving Boston means he'll most likely come after us. So… our first mission is to take him down first."

Alan nodded, and sighed, "Alright, then. I'll pack my things."

"Woah, woah, back up," yelled Juliet, causing Harold to jump, "That's it? Just like that? No questions? You could die!"

"So?" said Alan, almost laughing, "I'm dying, Juliet. I'm not getting any younger. Torchwood is amazing. Beautiful! Darling, I can not wait to get back to work!"

"But…" started Juliet, a smile spreading across her face.

"No buts, I'll see you at work," said Alan, and he turned to Harold, "And you, Asshole. You have a lot riding on you, didn't start off on the right foot. Do you believe you can take Richard on and win?"

"We're going to try," said Harold, nodding his head, "If we're going to fail, we're going to show that bastard that he's at least not untouchable."

"And us?" asked Alan.

"Sir, I will not order a move on him unless we are certain it will count," said Harold, "And I will die first before allowing anyone of my team to go down knowingly."

"And how can I trust you?"

"You… can't," said Harold, his jaw tightening, "I guess I'm just a man. All I have are my promises, my words, and my reputation."

Alan nodded, a small smile appearing on his face, "Alright then. Good enough for me. Let's go turn those words and promises into reputation, eh? I'll go pack my things."

As Alan headed steadily upstairs with the eagerness of a child, Harold asked, "And… how old is he again?"

"He should be about… 64 now, I believe," said Juliet, smiling up the stairs, "But he hasn't lost that sense of humor. Good to… see I guess. Anyway, Tech-Expert. We have one. Yes."

"Sounds simple," said Harold, sighing, "He looks like a real winner in the fight against DeGama."

"He'll surprise you," smiled Juliet.

"Next?"

"I thought we would try and find our medical expert back when Torchwood still ran for us," said Juliet, flipping through her notebook, "She was just a medical student, but she was real good and learned a lot in the time she was with us. I'm eager to see what she has been up to!"

"She?" asked Harold, rolling his eyes, "Oh boy."

"You think that's bad?" smiled Juliet, laughing sarcastically, "You're gonna have to realize you ain't in small-town fifties any more, gramps."

"Aw, hell no!" yelled Shannon Knightly across the medical ward, her frown turning into a large smile as she held out her arms for a hug, "If it isn't Julie! Ahh!"

Juliet rushed forward and gave her a hug. Shannon was a good six inches taller then Juliet. Her skin was many shades darker, along with her hair which was tightly tied back into a rough bun, however the mass of black hair just seemed to expand out of control, creating a black halo to the back of her head.

"Now, what are you doin in my hood, girl?" asked Shannon.

"Business," smiled Juliet, "And you. We're getting everything back together. We're going after Richard."

"Wait, what?" the smile on her face disappeared and she scowled passed Juliet at Harold, "And who the hell is this?"

"Lieutenant Harold Norman," Harold tipped his hat, "Torchwood."

"Uh-huh, and what the hell do you want?"

"Shannon, please," said Juliet, "We're trying to get the team back together. Rebuild Torchwood. And we're going after Richard."

"That Bastard? Good, someone needs to piss in his Fruit Loops," Shannon said, signing some paperwork given to her by an intern, "But what does this has to do with me? I… KNOW you are not here to drag me back."

"A Medical Expert would be nice," said Harold, "And you are trusted by Torchwood before."

"Mmhmmm, before," Shannon didn't look any happier, "Before ya'll closed down and left me out on the streets, ol' man!"

"Old man?" said Harold, jumping back.

"I had to start all over! I gave years of my medical career to a place I could never reference or prove! I had to start over."

"Hey, hey, hey! Slow down," cried a man from across the ward as he ran up to the group, wrapping his arm around Shannon, "Shan, my chica, are these Gringos bothering you?"

"Oh my, Enrica Chavez?" asked Juliet.

"Holy-Moly," said the man, stepping back, "If it isn't miss Juliet! Girl, you haven't missed a day!"

"Thanks, Rick," said Juliet, putting her hands on her hips and looking at Shannon, "Miss Knightly, would you care to explain?"

"Miss? I am a Doctor now, MISS Rivers," said Shannon, before she put her arms around the man, "And Enrica and I got together and he wanted to be close to me. So… he became a part time nurse here."

"And Janitor," said Enrica, puffing out his chest, "But I am full-time body guard, Gringo."

Harold rolled his eyes, "You must be joking? How do you know THIS rat? Please tell me Torchwood didn't all his kind?"

"My kind?" exclaimed Enrica, "Oh, I'm-a gonna cut you, bra."

"Ok, let's stop there," Juliet said, stepping between the two men, "HE was frozen, and he's out of his time! Ignore him for now!"

"Fine," Harold said.

"I was talking about YOU, Lieutenant, perhaps you should wait in the car?"

Harold stood straighter, feeling a little hurt and surprised. His fists clenched, and he scowled at Juliet.

"I may be 'old fashioned', but I will die before I take such orders," said Harold, then he turned to the other two, "Look, lady. I was told you are the best. And you know what we're getting into. You made a name of yourself here as a big name surgeon? That's great. But we need a full time doctor. So it's your choice."

Shannon almost laughed, but she nodded to Juliet, "Oh, you KNOW I'm comin', but it has nothing to do with Sergeant Douche bag over-here. I love Torchwood, honey, and I can-not wait to give Richard a run for his money."

"If she goes, I go!" Enrica yelled, raising his hand, "Please."

"What? No! We don't have any need for a male nurse!"

"Actually, Harold," said Juliet, "Enrica was our connection to the underground market."

"That's right, hat-man," said Enrica, "Anything you want, I could get. Info, alien tech, movements on coppers and feds alike. We need some IDs? I got you covered!"

"I don't see a need," Harold sighed.

"If he stays behind, kiss my ass good-bye, man," Shannon smiled.

Harold almost growled at them before Enrica came forward and said, "Did I mention guns? Gringo like you, must love guns. I can get all types, bra."

"Rule One," said Harold, "Don't call me Gringo. It's Lieutenant, or Lieutenant Norman."

"Alright," said Juliet, rolling her eyes, "Let's hope this will turn out great. Two more added."

"We're not doing too well with this list," said Harold, looking down at the list of Torchwood operatives they had attempted to recruit.

"Two more, looking better," said Juliet, "There's a few more I would like to try and call or visit… but I think we're going to need these guys."

"Good, let's go," said Harold, then he turned to head out the door.

"I really thought Franny would be… excited," said Juliet looking over some papers in the driver's seat.

"Well you did confiscate her arm and leg after her termination," said Harold, peering through binoculars in the driver's seat, "And her Husband…"

"Torchwood: America's strict policies on termination indicate all property of Torchwood must be returned-"

"She lost both limbs while on the job!" laughed Harold, "And she had no clue she was apart of a cross-breed experiment. Man… did Torchwood get cold."

"That… wasn't really our call," said Juliet.

"Is that him?" asked Harold.

Juliet picket up her tiny pair of binoculars, lifting it with one hand and laughing at Harold's large pair he hefted with two, and she looked out the car's windshield across the street. A small diner lit the sidewalk with the neon sign it hung above its doorway. A New York Yankees banner laid curled up on the street and a hobo begged for change beside the door.

Inside, Juliet could see the man Harold had pointed out. He wore a navy blue suit with combed back golden hair. He was in a vivid conversation with a very blonde lady in the booth across from him who daintily picked at her salad.

"Thomas Elridge," stated Juliet, "Left Torchwood and ended up picking up a job in the FBI. He's now an Analyst. His job is equally because he can do it extremely well as well as so the FBI can keep an eye on both him and Torchwood."

"I don't know… it's been a while since Torchwood… perhaps he won't be beneficial," said Harold, "I don't know how I feel about another reason for the FBI to breathe down our necks."

"Norman, we don't exactly have a lot of choice, we really need Tom on our side."

"We drove all the way out here," said Harold, dropping his binoculars, "I really do think we need to take this one step at a time."

"And what's the first step?"

"Saying 'Hello'," smiled Harold, grabbing his hat off the dash and stepping out of the car.

"Wait, wait," said Juliet, grabbing after him, and then gathering up some papers and trying to follow him, "Norman, wait! His dinner! Lieutenant!"

Harold walked across the barren New York street and headed to the diner. By the time he reached the doors Juliet had caught up and followed him inside. Harold turned the corner and eyed the booth.

The woman sitting across from Thomas spilled something, and she apologized and got up, heading towards the back to the bathroom. Thomas just chuckled the whole time, wiping away the fluid and giving the woman no gazes. When he finished cleaning, he stole a glance towards the bathroom, ensuring the lady disappeared inside the bathroom. He then turned to Harold and waved him over.

Harold smiled, walking forward.

"I am most honored, sir," said Thomas, "If it isn't Sam Spade, on a busted stake-out."

"Clever," said Harold, smiling, "I read that book."

"Fan of the film," stated Thomas, taking a drink from his glass but swallowing quickly upon seeing Juliet, "Oh, well now… Juliet Rivers."

"Tom," smiled Juliet.

"Please tell me this is a personal visit."

"My name is Lieutenant Harold Norman, we need your help."

"Lieutenant… wow. The military rounding up all the ex-Torchwoods?"

"We are Torchwood," answered Harold, "Torchwood Nine. Boston."

"Quite a drive, hope you didn't make it in that Antique," said Thomas, nodding out the window.

"You saw us? You're good."

"Really? You guys stand out…"

"Tom, Lieutenant Norman here has been instated by Cardiff to… reboot Torchwood and make us an actual force!"

"Yeah, like the older days, right?" chuckled Thomas, "Big bad Torchwood… oppressing the conspiracies and taking orders from the man."

"We did important work," said Henry.

"Important work, please."

"Look, I'm going to change everything anyway," said Henry, taking off his hat and resting it on the table, "The world has changed in the years I've been gone."

"Gone?"

"I'll explain later," whispered Juliet.

"Look, Torchwood was always about… trying to understand the unknown. Archive and Combat threats the world was not ready for and wouldn't quite understand. Learning, fighting, and stockpiling until the day we could effectively assist the human race with their first steps into the unknown. To space… to another world. To the future. I'm sick of all the back room deals and the Government agendas and the… second class work. It has only gotten worse, from what I have seen."

"And you're going to change all that?"

"Yeah," said Henry, nodding, "But we need some help. We can't even begin to try and change things with DeGama still muscling Boston. If we don't put the vice on him, we're dead in the water."

"I am apart of the FBI, and that isn't easy to quit without any notice and no… reason," said Thomas, sipping at his glass, "And… Richard isn't apart of this whole thing? Wow… that's very interesting."

"The Black Helicopters will fall before they have a chance to stop us," said Harold, poking the table, "And once he thinks over the situation, DeGama will see that we are a threat to him and he will come."

"Oh, how Dramatic," said Thomas, looking down and twiddling his thumbs before he said, "What are we going to do about my FBI position?"

"We can deal with that later, but I'm sure we can find our way around it. Say you're on an assignment or something. We could forge a document or-"

"Or I could just take some of my vacation time," smiled Thomas, leaning back, "Wouldn't be too bad after I finish this assignment."

"Why didn't you say that before?" asked Juliet.

"You didn't ask nicely," said Thomas, who stole a glance behind his shoulder, "And if I were you I would hurry before my target returns."

"She's your target?" smiled Harold.

"I'm officially already done with her but if I could get some more information… well… unless something interesting comes along I'm going for extra credit."

"Tom, please," said Juliet, "We… kinda need you."

"Kinda?"

"Thomas Elridge," stated Harold, cutting off Juliet, "I, Lieutenant Norman of Torchwood Nine, request your services as a Torchwood operative. Even if it is only for as long as helping us bring the Black helicopters to their knees."

"Wow, pulled out all the stops," smiled Thomas, giving a few claps even, "You know what… Harold, was it? I like you. I like the suit. Love the git-up. Let's go take them down!"

"Sounds good," smiled Juliet.

"So, what's your plan, 'El-Tee'," said Thomas, leaping up and throwing some bills on the table and looking around for his date.

"We don't know," sighed Harold.

"Run that by me again?"

"Our step one was round up a team," said Juliet, shrugging, "And now… we plan."


	3. Pilot Part Three

**Everything Changed**

**Part 3**

"The Black Helicopters," stated Harold, leaning against a table facing the group of men and women before him, "So… what do we know?"

"This is NOT going to be easy," said Thomas, shrugging, "We are… way under prepared."

"Their security systems are brand new and shiny," said Alan, smiling, "It's not going to be easy getting in there again, and impossible to do it without them knowing about it."

"Looking at a fight?" asked Harold.

"Quite possibly," Thomas sighed.

"Yo, man, we can't take that many hombres," Enrica said.

"Alan, what sort of security are we looking at?" Harold asked.

"Well, Lieutenant," said Alan, standing to his feet and pacing a table, "It doesn't look like much from the outside. However rest assured there are a variety of cameras that keep tabs on the outside. From what I can see…. Uhm… hey, Darling?"

A purple light filled the room; a large face appeared above the group.

"Dear, we need some photos and maps of the Black Helicopters' Building please."

"Request. Displaying."

Images showed up on the screens around them and a holographic model of the building formed above the group.

"As you can see," started Alan, taking out his glasses and putting them on, "You can spot the presence of micro HD Cameras here, here, and here, and accompanied by thermal as well as radar cameras here and here. They appear to have motion and sonar detectors located around the waters edge and the back areas of the building as well as what I can tell to be remote motion machine guns on the roof of the heli-pad. Any unauthorized personnel up there will be cut down real fast."

"So… video-cameras," said Henry, "That is… bad. What about inside?"

Thomas moved something on a remote and the holographic model of the building swiveled, coming apart and showing a mangled mess of numbers and pictures of armed guards.

"Umm… did the definition of 'model' change with the way in which it is presented?" asked Harold, leaning towards the model.

"That's just the thing, boy," said Alan, "We have nothing on the inside of that place. We can't make a model. Look, we have what you guys saw and that's it. We know that there is a small observation room overlooking a large warehouse-like estate. What you saw while you were inside. We know about the main entrance, and that branches off into a variety of conference rooms. Everything after that is a mystery or legend."

"We know that we can expect a training center for operatives somewhere on the premises," said Thomas, "B.H. Operatives need to be in perfect physical fitness. They also have a large armory stashed somewhere in the basement. They have state of the art weaponry and if we get into the complex odds are they already know about it and they will be ready."

"Let's not leave out that they have enough agents and connections to oppress most of the Atlantic seaboard," chimed in Shannon, "And many of those agents call this one Boston Location 'Home'."

"Yes, so I can't even get into the place to give us any more information," said Alan, leaning back in his chair, "Their security is way too thick. I can't hack in or anything. And they have more backups then I can believe. Hacking into that place… it's just not going to happen."

"We'll cut the power," said Harold.

"Uh, backups," said Shannon, "That place has its own generator."

"The moment the power is cut… they'll just turn it back on," said Alan, "And then they'll know something is up. They have a specialized power circuit, a private line. A direct line straight to the power plant."

"So… again… we are in for a fight," said Harold.

"Woah, wait a moment, dude," said Enrica, sitting more forward in his chair, "What if we could sneak in… or get in… would that help you out, Alan?"

"A direct feed into their systems would… aid in our efforts," said Alan, stroking his chin, "How on Earth would you get in there?"

"I am not on bad terms with the Helicopters," Enrica said, "In fact, I was considering going back into that lifestyle before my chica gave me a second chance at real work."

"Aw, baby," Shannon leaned over and hugged him.

"Shush, woman," said Enrica, leaning away, "Anyway, I could pose as finally coming around and wanting a job with them, hooking up with a gig and all that. Now I'm sure they'll be dicey and the like, Richard never really liked me, but I do know that we connected at the same level when it came to aliens and shit."

"Not helping your side," said Harold, a scowl shooting across his face.

"Listen, man, let's say you were told to come find me and after talking we couldn't leave the Torchwood life. What if we went together looking for more high-class work."

"Nah, he wouldn't buy that… would he?" asked Thomas.

"I did make myself clear about how I felt about him," said Harold.

"Isn't that just the thing?" asked Juliet, smiling, "You are not from around here and you are way out of your league. It's hard enough for us to return to normal life after this job… right?"

All around the room heads started to nod, urging Juliet to continue, "So… why wouldn't it make sense. You're out of touch with the times… so why not return to the only thing you feel comfortable doing. The… Torchwood-esque… lifestyle."

"I'd buy it," said Thomas, "And my two other jobs were how to mistrust as many people and their stories as possible."

"If you can get inside…" started Alan, who rustled around in nearby desk drawers before pulling out a small capsule, "And hook this up to their computer, any computer, then I can hook up to their power supply and use that to boost my signal… and I could have an exponential easier time getting into their systems."

"Where would you hook up to such a place?" asked Shannon.

"Darling, you mind showing us the exterior again," said Alan.

"Request. Displaying."

"Look over here," said Alan, leaving the model of the B.H. Building and going towards a nearby harbor, "This buoy, here, is a cover for a direct access into the harbor and underground… to where their main line is. There should be a terminal where I can hack in."

"Ok…" said Harold, "But we can't be sure that this won't go sour… What happens if he lures us in there then just shoots us."

"What? No… If anything he would be interested in hooking up with old… amigos and…," Enrica stopped, looking around at the group.

"Don't they teach history anymore?" said Harold, rolling his eyes, "Gangsters, Nazis, and Commies did this crap all the time. We once had to do a sit down with the Twos in Berlin. The Reds were bringing us our-"

"Uhm… Harold," said Thomas, "You mind? If I? Anyway, they invited them in, and whether by design or because of what happened they tried to kill them."

"Pretty much," said Harold.

"So… we fight back," said Shannon, "You boys were not thinking of going in there defenseless?"

"We can't be too strapped or they will never let us in the front door," said Enrica.

"Unless you pretend to be… ringing us dry."

Harold looked at Juliet, who crossed her arms and looked around her.

"There's not much here… and that could be your cover story," said Juliet.

"Harold tries to get into touch with old Torchwwood agents," said Thomas, "Captain Torchwood heads home, seeing a losing battle. Enrica hooks up with the American hero, here, so they decide to clean house and make some friends, getting back into the action pack lifestyle and flowing money."

"Could fly," said Juliet.

"It'll have to," said Harold, standing up and straightening his vest, "We're running out of runway."

"So, let's find some empty boxes and perhaps some guns and prepare to head out," said Juliet.

"Alright then. Alan, get to practicing that… hack… into thingy so that when the time comes you'll be good to go. Thomas, you'll be assisting Alan. Stay out of sight and be prepared to rush to our aid if plans go south," started Harold, "Juliet… I would like you to run communications from here. Make sure we all stay connected. Shannon, I need you on call with a backup vehicle in case people get hurt. And that leaves Enrica and myself heading into hell. Clear?"

There was a silence in the room. Each member looked at one another in confusion. Before long, Enrica and Thomas shared a chuckle, then Juliet and Shannon. Harold looked around, a puzzled expression filling his face.

"Slightly old fashioned, pops," said Juliet, walking up to Harold and patting his shoulder, "We haven't needed a coms manager since the sixties. I think the Alan-Thom combo works great. However Shannon and myself should provide secondary backup. Hanging tight and waiting for secondary extraction. We can keep tabs on… progress."

"Funny," said Harold, "But… I am out of date. You two think you're enough for backup?"

"Hell-no!" Exclaimed Shannon, "If you guys get fucked in there that's probably it, you're done. But… we are all you have, and if it was any other way… you may not be in better shape."

"Alright, then," said Harold, smiling, "Wouldn't have it any other way… Let's get to work. As soon as we can start this the better."

He sat there staring at the safe for what felt like an eternity. Harold held it in his hand. A key… a key that so long ago had meant so much. He just starred at the safe, the key running and re-running through his fingers.

A knocking at the door snapped him out of his trance, he looked up to see Juliet standing in the doorway.

"Deep thoughts?"

"Big decisions…" said Harold, leaning back in the chair, "I never really liked mysteries."

"So… you think you're ready for this?" she asked.

"Getting up to date is the biggest challenge," said Harold, "Well… that and suddenly being responsible for a ton of lives."

"A ton? Sounds like an overstatement."

"Understatement," said Harold, crossing his arms and leaning back, "Every time a life is placed in your hands you are responsible for at least three or four more. And each one is heavier then the one before it, and the one after it."

"Sounds impossible," said Juliet.

"I only slightly touched the feeling," said Harold, smiling.

"We found a good amount of armored crates," said Juliet, "We're getting ready to load them up with bogus supplies and a few weapons and possibly load them up in the jalopy."

"Jalopy?" asked Harold, clutching his chest, "Come on…now. That old car isn't even close to a jalopy. Baby's a Plymouth!"

"Yeah, what ever," said Juliet, turning around and heading out the door, "Just, if you're going to doze off… let's get to work on the up-to-date thing."

Juliet walked off and Harold leaned back, sighing and giving the key one last look. He looked around the office at the piled up paperwork and he sighed at the dust.

As Harold walked into the firing range, he saw that the shots he had heard was Thomas firing off some rounds. He held a pistol in his hands and fired at a target projected down the range. Alan sat in the corner, messing with some mechanical contraption in his hands.

Thomas turned around and smiled at Harold, gesturing Harold to the bench.

"Bother you with the noise?" asked Thomas, "Being behind a desk for so long… I kinda miss the kick."

"According to the files… you guys have been mostly archival for some time," said Harold, "When did archivists need guns?"

"You'd be surprised," smiled Thomas, who gestured to a few weapons on the bench, "Think you can still fire a shot?"

"I guarantee it," smiled Harold, who instead of picking up from the table he grabbed his revolver from his holster.

"That thing looks… old," said Thomas.

"Is that such a bad thing? Old?" said Harold, shaking his head, "We managed to kill each other just fine back in my day."

"Well… maybe so but we've perfected the art," smiled Thomas, "Look, semi-automatic. With a clip. More bullets."

"I'm from the forties, the nineteen-forties, not medieval times," said Harold, shaking his head, "I used a colt in the war. I just prefer the power of a revolver… and… I like it."

"Alright, alright," said Thomas, "Let's see you fire a shot."

Harold looked down the range. At the touch of a button, Thomas brought up another illuminative target. With a second click, the targets turned into alien creatures. The creatures stood up straight, and they opened there mouth in a roar. Harold jumped back and let out a gasp, throwing his revolver up and firing a shot.

"Jesus, Norman, chill!" yelled Thomas, grasping his ears.

Alan began to laugh, and almost dropped his tools, "Take a breathe, Lieutenant. It's a new way to train!"

"That's… that's…" stuttered Harold.

"A Hoix? Not quite," said Thomas, laughing, "It's a simulation. To help you gauge your shots at a real target. You know? To help with training everyone."

"Look closer, Thom, I think he's got you beat!" laughed Alan, standing up.

When Harold looked, a small blue area had lit up in one of the creature's heads. The board above it lit up red, reading "Critical". Thomas let out a nervous chuckle, picking up a small tablet on the bench and bringing up a picture of the creature on the tablet. A small blue dot was dead set in the creature's eye.

"Well… what do you know…" said Thomas.

"Lucky shot," said Harold, grasping his chest.

"Screw that, this is a damn good shot." Said Thomas, "That was instinct… that was skill."

"That's training," corrected Harold.

"Darling," said Alan, sitting straighter in his chair, "Crunch some numbers and cross reference records. How good of a shot was that and was it training?"

"Question. Calculating," came Tiffani's booming voice over the intercom, after a few minutes she continued, "Accuracy: Grade 'A'. Reaction Time: 1.97 Seconds. Weapon Accuracy… Recorded Eyesight Grade… Range Conditions. Target Type: Hoix. Final decision: shot fired by New User: Lieutenant Harold Norman rated in the top 2%."

"That's not training, son," laughed Alan.

"You still got that new user thing?" asked Thomas.

"They sure don't make them like they used to," said Alan, "Sure, that was one in a million shot… but you were… Let's just say if you were jumped for real… you would have shot and killed that Hoix and survived that encounter."

"So you can shoot," said Thomas, "And… shoot well."

"Stick around, I can teach you," smiled Harold, "If you would like."

"You expect us to?" said Alan, "You know… you never truly asked us to come back, Harold."

"I never want to force that on you," said Harold, "I just figured… if any of us survive this we'd figure that kind of stuff out."

"Well, it appears the Torchwood curse might still be in affect."

"What was that, Alan?" said Harold, turning around, "A curse?"

"The Torchwood Curse. You never heard of it? Nobody ever… leaves Torchwood. They get killed. That's the only way out. To be taken out."

"I might've only been with them a short time but I saw agents shot, stabbed, slashed, eaten… heard of people being burned, suffocated, transported elsewhere… presumed dead," said Thomas, "I will admit… I don't think there's a single case on file of retirement."

"On file? How about me?" laughed Alan, leaning back, "I think myself and… Director Wilhelm were the only ones who ever have that on record."

"Wait… Wilhelm?" said Harold, looking up, "He's… retired?"

"Sort of," said Alan, the smile leaving his face, "He… was supposed to. Stayed a little longer to aid the new Director, Director Rynom, with getting settled in. Next thing we know… there was a terrible… attack. A jail break from our small holding cells that turned into allowing six alien warlords to enter the inner base. It ended in one of the worst and only battles to ever happen inside of our headquarters. We lost many men that day… but some of their bodies were never seen again. Wilhelm one of them. They are presumed dead… specially Wilhelm. He was a little older then me by that time if my memory serves."

"Damn…" said Harold, sighing, "That's how… he went."

"The curse," said Thomas, nodding, before turning to Alan and smiling, putting on some sort of fake accent, "Once I get out… they just drag me right back in again!"

Alan and Thomas shared a chuckle, but it stifled after a second.

"If we survive this I don't see myself making the mistake of settling down again," said Alan, standing up and nodding at Harold, "If you'll have me, Lieutenant, I shall enjoy getting back into the swing of things."

Harold smiled and nodded, then turned to the range, "If we survive this."

He raised his revolver, aiming down the sights this time, and squeezed the trigger.

"Alright… it has been sent," said Juliet, approaching the group as they loaded the last of the bogus boxes.

"Sounds good," said Harold, turning to Thomas, "I guess it is time for you and Alan to head over and begin your work."

"Let's load up, first," said Thomas, walking over to where the armory door was.

Harold, Enrica, and Alan followed him inside, with Juliet rolling her eyes and stepping forward to finish the packing. Inside the Armory, Thomas flipped a switch and a row of florescent lights lit up the catwalk and displayed row after row of rifles and pistols. Harold let out a whistle and looked through all the black, plastic guns around him.

Thomas lifted one up and held it out to for Harold, "M4, one of the deadliest weapons in the world."

"What? This is a damn tinker toy," said Harold, playing around with the weight, "I feel like I'm going to break this damn thing."

"I felt the same way when they introduced the new designs," smiled Alan, "Trust me, they're a huge improvement to the M16. They kill people just fine."

"No offense, but you can kill them 'just fine'," Harold tossed the rifle back at Thomas, "I'll get something with some kick."

"How about a double kick," chimed Enrica, displaying two Belgium FN P90s.

"Again, grow up," said Harold, "We're attacking an organization in their home turf. Where they train, where they work, where they sleep."

"We're not going to reform an old hunter," said Alan, walking towards the back of the Armory and pulling on a lever, "We need to harness that… desire."

A portion of the weapon's rack rose into the ceiling, showing another gun rack underneath. After it cycled through a few racks, Alan stopped on one and motioned for Harold. As Harold approached, he smiled at the rack of weapons. Thompsons and M1 Garand's filled the rack. A few Colt pistols were also upon it. Harold smiled, before grasping a rifle towards the end.

"This," he said, holding out the large rifle, "Is what I mean. The Browning Automatic Rifle. This… this is a weapon. The choice of the great Clyde Barrow…"

"It's big," said Enrica, smiling, "It was pretty good in Call of Duty…"

"That gun hasn't been fired in years," said Thomas, smiling, "Clean it good and fire some shots… but otherwise be careful with it. I hope you won't mind if I roll with the tinker toy."

"Yeah, me too," said Enrica, smiling, "Tinker toys come with grenade launchers."

"No Grenades," said Thomas.

"But the launcher is fine," said Enrica, smiling.

"I'm getting too old for this," said Alan, grabbing a pistol off a nearby rack and holstering it, heading out of the room.

"You better head out," said Harold, grabbing a few massive ammunition magazines from the rack, "We'll need you guys in place well before we arrive. We won't have a lot of time once we're in."

"Best of luck, old man," said Thomas, smiling, "See you on the inside."

"Hopefully not," said Harold.

By the time Harold and Enrica returned to pack their choices in the most secure case, Thomas and Alan had left. After loading their selections into the crate, Juliet helped wheel the cart toward the motor pool. As they loaded the last of these crates into the back of the Plymouth Juliet pulled Harold aside.

"Look, once we start this there is no going back," she said.

"I know."

"However… this doesn't mean we have to die today."

"I know. We'll get out fine. We have surprise on our side."

"No… I mean…. If it goes bad we can always just run away!"

"I don't think-"

"They'll hunt us, and we'll have to run… but we can get away. Survive."

"I'm sure everything will be ok," said Harold, "Listen… I will do everything I can to insure no one gets hurt who doesn't have to. I will be dead before I let anyone else die. Ok?"

"I just feel like.." Juliet stopped, putting her hand to her mouth and looking around, "I feel like you might be giving up… on us… on yourself. You don't have to do this… you don't have to die."

"It's ok," Harold patted her shoulder, "Now buck-up, gal. Stop acting all sappy. We can't let them continue running like this. This is our best shot at… fixing this."

Harold helped Enrica load the last crate, their crate, into the back of the Plymouth and shut the trunk. Enrica rushed over to the passenger door and hopped inside, shutting the door.

"You girls stay on the com," said Harold, "When it goes bad, prepare to act. We'll figure it out when it happens. Once we start really moving, though, that place is going to become one hell of a hot spot."

"Don't worry," yelled Shannon, walking up to the group, "I got a great idea that'll help keep these guys off your back."

"Lay it on me."

"I got an anti-aircraft missile launcher all loaded up and ready to go, good for three shots," said Shannon, smiling, "We are guaranteed three helicopters will fall before landing on that building."

"Sounds… reassuring I guess," said Harold.

"That's not all," said Shannon, nodding to Juliet.

"I had Alan hook us up a few laser turrets to put up around the area," said Juliet, "They are old laser targeting from more SAM missile turrets. He hooked them up to sweep the skies and find Arial craft. If those helicopters come anywhere near, they'll THINK they are being locked onto. That should be enough to keep most of them away for quite some time."

"Good work," said Harold, smiling, "Nice thinking. Now you better get to a vehicle and start setting those up. We're on our way out."

Harold nodded to the two of them, then turned to get inside the Plymouth. He turned on the car and took a deep breath. It was now or never.

Thomas held out his rifle, scanning the docks once more before gesturing Alan to follow him. They crossed the short span from the harbormaster's checkpoint to the dock and he threw the instant raft into the dark murk of the harbor. After a few seconds, the bag popped and inflated, becoming a decent sized raft. Thomas and Alan leapt into the raft and Thomas activated a small, silent motor and steered it towards a distant red light in the harbor.

Upon reaching the buoy, Thomas did a sweep of the harbor with his rifle as Alan climbed aboard the buoy and picked a lock towards the top of it. After a few seconds Alan threw the lock aside and opened the top of the buoy.

Looking down, Allan could see a steel ladder leading down the buoy and then down a moving tube deep into the ocean.

"Claustrophobic?" asked Alan.

"Uhm… not really," said Thomas, "See the bottom?"

Alan cracked a glowstick and dropped it down the opening, "I see the glow… this is going to take some time."

"Well… I'm gonna go down with you," said Thomas, "I don't think we're spotted so we should be able to hide in here."

Alan already had climbed into the buoy and began climbing down, "Do what we must, I need to tap in."

"They'll be arriving soon," said Thomas, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and climbing up to follow Alan, then he tapped his ear mic, "Hey, Harry? We're almost in position. Heading down now. You ready?"

"We're getting there. You guys just be ready for your part."

"We're doing it," said Thomas.

"We're getting there. You guys just be ready for your part," said Harold, awkwardly speaking with his ear mic.

"We're doing it," came Thomas's voice through the earpiece.

"I hate these things," said Harold, turning onto the next street heading towards the harbor.

"Yeah, you've never talked on the phone and drived before, huh?" Enrica's nervous voice squeaked.

"No, believe it or not phones were stationary back then," said Henry.

"Uhh… boss," came Thomas's voice, "Hit the button on your ear. We don't need to hear this."

Harold touched the earpiece, hearing a tiny beep.

"Better?" asked Harold.

"You got it," said Enrica, "Look!"

The Plymouth pulled around a corner, and into sight of the Black Helicopters Building. In another minute Harold had pulled into the parking lot of the building and found a space slightly off from the main building. Harold shut off the car and sighed, looking around the parking lot. It was just as empty and untouched as it had been the last time he had been here.

"Alright," said Harold, and he touched his earpiece, "So… we're parked, and getting ready to head out."

"Alan's almost there… we'll be ready to set up in a second."

"Girls?"

"We beat you to position. Fingers crossed and paryin'" said Shannon over the radio.

"We're gonna need it," said Harold, nodding at Enrica.

"I love you, baby," said Enrica.

Harold opened the door and stepped out of the car, Enrica followed.

"Hooking up now, let's go, team," said Thomas.

Harold touched the Earpiece again and headed to the back of the car. Enrica was quick to reach the back of the car before Harold.

"Alright, so breathe deep," said Harold, "Stay calm, and you do most of the talking. Remember, I am reluctant but have no choice. You, on the other hand, are hopeful and have the connections."

"Sounds great, dude, I got this."

"Alright, in and out, I don't want any-"

Harold trailed off as he searched the sky for any helicopters. A white smoke trail caught his eye, and he focused in on a small object above them. His eyes focused. The object was falling down toward them. Wait, the object was jerking. It was some sort of rocket. It jerked again.

Harold's eyes widened. He grabbed Enrica and started bolting. Enrica let out a yelp of surprise. Harold yelled something. A small screech could be heard. A Heat engulfed Harold's back, throwing him forward through the Parking lot.

Harold lay still on the ground. Dirt and debris fell all around him, some of them landing on his back. Harold opened his eyes. He could see his hat sitting not too far away. Burning metal and broken glass seemed to stretch on in every direction. He rolled onto his back.

Enrica lifted himself onto his knees, and groaned loudly to himself, looking around. Rising to his feet, he walked over to Harold and picked him up.

"Lieutenant," he said, lifting Harold, "Yo, dude, wake up!"

"What… the hell," moaned Harold, "You alright?"

"Little bloody, but nothing big, man, you?"

"I'm… shaken up," Harold stumbled to the side and grabbed his hat from the ground, "What…"

"Dude, the God-Damned car!" yelled Enrica.

"What the hell was that?" asked Thomas over the headset.

"Shit, Rick," said Harold, "That was too close."

Harold looked at the smoldering wreck of the car. The Plymouth sat burning, most of its top portion completely missing. The cases from inside appeared to have been destroyed, blown open, or shot out of the car in a few directions. Harold looked to the damaged case close to himself and he walked towards it, opening it up.

"Well, there might be a God still yet," he said, before touching his ear, "Can you hear me?"

"Got you," said Juliet, "What the hell was that? Looked like a missile."

"DeGama fired the first shot," said Harold, opening the case and showing Enrica that it was the case holding their weapons, "We are still in business, though, and we are engaging now. Loading up and heading inside."

"You may still have the element of surprise," said Thomas, "But not for long. Get in there quick, I'm on my way to help out."

"I'm awaiting to tap in," came Alan's voice, "I can try cutting the power but I warn you it won't be too helpful."

"Cut it," said Harold, who had grabbed the BAR and a few clips and followed the now armed Enrica toward the front door where they had first entered.

"Oh my God… this is a mess," cried Juliet, before Harold tapped his ear and it went silent.

"We need to act fast," said Harold to Enrica, "Shoot first, ask questions later."

"Well… I don't know, man," said Enrica, "That's kind of an overdone and cheesy battle line, you know?"

"What?" asked Harold, pressing his back to the door before shaking his head, "Never mind, just get in there and shoot what moves. They are all enemies!"

"Doesn't sound professional," said Enrica.

"No, it's survival."

Harold opened the door and ducked inside, Enrica rolling his eyes and following him in. The small, trailer-esque room had not changed. The receptionist sat at the lone desk, typing away at something.

"Do you have-" she started, before looking up and her eyes widened.

Harold raised his rifle, leveling it towards he desk. She dived out of her chair and slammed into the wall. Harold pulled the trigger.

As the BAR kicked back on his shoulder Harold watched the desk shatter in front of him. The bullets blew apart the cheap wooden desk and soared passed into the walls. After waiting a few seconds, Harold turned his powerful onslaught towards the walls. The common colored plastered shattered under the onslaught, and slowly began to crumble away. Before long, the BAR stopped kicking, and the room went eerily silent.

The walls crumbled away, revealing them standing in a slightly bigger room. Several doors could be seen among the crumbling ruins. Among the debris from the broken walls were bodies of armed guards.

"Woah, man," Enrica mumbled, walking up behind Harold, "You were like Rambo for a second there."

"Just… just relapsed is all," said Harold, shaking his head, "Haven't fired a gun like that in… some time."

Harold took out the empty magazine and pocketed it, grabbing a fresh one from his satchel. He looked around, viewing his handy work.

"Trap doors," said Harold, "That's how they got us last time. Armed guards behind trap doors."

"Which way to DeGama?" asked Enrica, looking at the doors.

"Why don't you take the one marked Armory and keep them from their weapons, eh?" suggested Harold, walking up to the desk, "And I'll get GeGama. We'll wait for… backup."

Harold knelt down and removed some debris, revealing the secretary, her leg bleeding. She had some bruising and scrapes starting and she shivered where she lay.

"Hello, darling," said Harold, tipping his hat, "I have an appointment with Richard DeGama. You remember me from last time? It's really important I find him."

"If… if… you wait in the waiting room," she coughed, "I'll let him know you've arrived."

"I really must… know," said Harold, "Now… I won't ask again."

Her hand began moving across her waist. Harold already had his revolver out by the time her hand grasped the hilt of her gun.

"Last chance," Harold's head began to shake, "Please… don't"

She only tugged once on the pistol and Harold closed his eyes. He pulled the trigger and the gunshot made Enrica jump.

"Was that nessessary?" asked Enrica.

"Go, now," said Harold, getting up and holstering his pistol, "We don't have time."

Enrica turned around and headed towards the door, disappearing around it. Harold got up and walked straight towards the door, opening the door and checking the long corridor behind it.

Thomas leaned on the rails, and sighed. He was hanging a few rungs above the area. Alan knelt at the bottom on a large amount of wires and pipes, wrist deep in wires.

"Almost done," said Alan, "A few more wires… and I could… we are almost waiting on them."

"You think they'll make it in? Shouldn't be long," said Thomas.

A vibration shook the small enclosed area, and Thomas and Alan shared a glance.

"The hell," mumbled Alan.

"Can you hear me?" came Harold's voice over the radio.

"Got you," said Juliet, "What the hell was that? Looked like a missile."

"DeGama fired the first shot," said Harold, Thomas's eyes expanding with the news, "We are still in business, though, and we are engaging now. Loading up and heading inside."

"You may still have the element of surprise," said Thomas, "But not for long. Get in there quick, I'm on my way to help out."

"I'm awaiting to tap in," Alan's chimed in, "I can try cutting the power but I warn you it won't be too helpful."

"Cut it," said Harold.

"Oh my God… this is a mess," cried Juliet.

"We're cutting the power," said Thomas, "Then we'll have to head over."

Thomas touched his earpiece and then prepared to climb back up the ladder.

"Hey, Thomas," said Alan, "I cut the power… but with that generator it isn't making a difference… at all."

"We figured," said Thomas, "Not much to do now but go lend what hand we can in the fighting."

"Wait… I have an idea!" said Alan, quickly, "What else did Richard take when he left?"

"What do you mean?"

"I believe he took and has built upon the old Nylonic Reactor, remember that?" said Alan.

"That would… appear to be the case… makes sense with it being undetectable."

"Well… it has limits."

"Won't reach them soon enough."

"No, not by itself," said Alan, "But if we were to send a massive surge back through this line… they wouldn't have shut off the power. All that power would have to find an outlet. THAT REACTOR."

"So…"

"It would explode," said Alan, smiling, "And fry most of the major systems while it is at it. Not even a surge protector can stand up to it."

"Can you do this?"

"Need to be at the central power grid," said Alan, "But… I should… be able to."

"Let's go then," said Thomas, rushing up the ladder, "I'll bring you there. Let's hope this works."

Harold found himself in a mess of hallways. He only had a firefight with maybe two or three guys, but he could hear more moving. As he went what he assumed was deeper into the compound the clean walls and covered florescent lights became metallic coverings as well as exposed bulbs. Harold lined the hallway with his rifle sights and swept back and forth as he continued down it.

Hearing some activity in other rooms, Harold avoided them and headed further down the hallway. Opening a large door at the end of the second hallway, Harold found himself on a catwalk in the dark, leading through a mixture of overhangs and rafters. Ducking through them, Harold saw they branched off to several other doors with locks on the outside. Harold attempted to open some of them, but couldn't. As he continued down the catwalk, he noticed one of the doors left slightly ajar, and he slipped up to it and peered through the crack.

Inside the room he could see shadows and hear voices. He eased himself towards the crack and tried to get eyes on those inside. Looking around, Harold realized it was the same room they had been in before, and he could see the window that overlooked the warehouse. Harold lifted his BAR a little steadier, and lifted his foot. With one, strong kick he bashed in the door, and he sidestepped to use the frame as cover as he looked around inside. Before he could reach the safety of the frame he felt a force from behind knock the wind out of him and he was tossed into the room, rolling on the ground.

Harold got to his knees and tried to raise his rifle, but the other person in the room gave it a swift kick, knocking it out of his hands. Without breaking the fluid motion of the kick the person spun on one leg and rounded himself to kick Harold across the face, throwing his hat from his head. Harold tried to stand again but two firm sets of hands grabbed him and lifted him up.

Harold tried to reach for his revolver but before he could yank it from the holster a figure was already flying through the air and drop-kicked him right in his gut tossing him out of the two thugs grip and flying onto the floor. Harold gasped for breath, and as he did the two sets of hands lifted him up once more. Harold could not find his revolver, his holster was empty. Harold coughed, tasting iron and warmth in his mouth.

The figure stood and turned to Harold. Harold saw a gleam in his hand as the figure reeled back and threw a punch right at him. Harold could almost feel his jaw cracking as his vision blurred and he went limp in the thugs arms.

Thomas kicked in the door to the terminal, and raised his badge as well as his M4. The three electrical workers stood from their seats and raised their hands in fear.

"Over there, against the walls!" said Thomas, motioning with his rifle, "You guys, with the others!"

The two security gaurds as well as the one other worker they found on the way entered the room. Under Alan's pistol point they joined the three against the wall.

"Sorry, guys," said Thomas, "FBI business. Very important. No time for paperwork or arguments. Alan, go!"

Alan immediately crossed the span of the room and began fiddling with the controls.

"You guys are going to take down the whole system!" one of the workers said.

"No, only one," said Alan, smiling as lights flashed and the controls became more familiar to him, "Are you ready, boy? We got one shot at this and it needs to be all at once!"

"You think it'll work?"

"If it won't then they are surely dead… if they are not already," stated Alan, watching as the levels began to rise into the red levels.

"Do it, Alan."

"Not yet."

"Alan, it's in the red."

"Not… yet."

"Those are critical levels! If you don't stop…"

"Please be quiet."

"Not… yet… boy…"

"Alan… they might be dying! They could be dead!"

"NOW!" cried Alan, causing all in the room to jump. As he pressed some buttons and flipped a master switch, he watched as the lights in the room began to flicker, and all the levels on the screen dropped while one shot straight into the red.

"Did it work?" said Thomas.

"We'll know in a minute…" said Alan, "Just… wait…"

Harold awoke on the floor, his head bleeding. He tried to move his jaw, listening to it as it cracked and crinkled with the movement. Damaged, maybe, but not broken.

"I gave you a chance," came a voice, a bit foggy at first.

Harold brought up his hand to rub his forehead. He thought he could hear a slight humming. His eyes opened more and he could feel his left eye beginning to fight him with bruising.

Harold could see three thugs standing over him, guns at the ready and pointed at his head. DeGama stood slightly off, using a handkerchief to wipe blood off a pair of brass knuckles he clutched in his hand.

"Do you think I am stupid?" said Degama, slightly louder, "That it was… an act of kindness… no, friendship! NO! Trust… that I did not wipe your brain so clean that you don't remember how to ride a goddamn bike!"

"You… bastard," said Harold, as he struggled to get up.

"You… you thought I wouldn't know?" DeGama continued, "Like I wouldn't find out? What? You and your little band of cast-aways were just gonna come in here, armed, and… kill us all?"

"Don't need to," coughed DeGama, "Just… you."

"Oh, what a sad story," said DeGama, "How noble. How… heroic. Look, old man, you don't live in the forties anymore. Times have changed… for the better! It's all about the money… it's all about the power… it's all about the information!"

DeGama walked closer, and as he did Harold could've sworn a slight humming noise got louder too. DeGama stepped over Harold, using his foot to push Harold back to the floor and kneel over him.

"You have declared war, 'Lieutenant'," spat DeGama, "A war you led your team into… a war you cannot win. Because of the information! I see everything."

"You… don't deserve power," said Harold, "I will… end you."

"No you won't, Harold," said DeGama, leaning closer, "Because I… know you. I know who you are. Lieutenant Harold Norman. I know who you were… and I know why you were locked away."

"You don't know shit," said Harold.

"Oh… I know all about your search, your battle," said DeGama, almost beginning to whisper, "I know what happened… in secret… in the dead of night. During the war. I know what you saw… I know about… him."

Harold's eyes locked onto DeGama's and he said nothing.

"I know his suit," said DeGama, smiling, "I know he hunts… and I know he has been dormant… for a long time," DeGama smiled, before leaning slightly closer, "Well, as dormant as he can be. I know his current name… and the one he has liveed by for years."

"Der Ritter," whispered Harold.

"Yes…" said DeGama, placing a hand on Harold's shoulders, "Der Ritter… your ghost. The Anomalies that doesn't exist… even by Torchwood standards. The whole… kabob! The last hurrah!"

"What… do you know?"

"That you will never… know," whispered DeGama, looking into Harold's eyes, "That you will die here today knowing you lost… everything. Your team. Your chase. Your second chance."

"I'll kill you. You don't deserve…"

"Power…" answered DeGama, smiling, "Neither do you, Lieutenant. Isn't that how it goes? No one in power deserves it. What you do to get there takes that away. You are obsessive over a ghost… and I… I do what is necessary."

Harold closed his eyes, thinking of the image. The tall… the arms… the pale face. The silence… how quiet he was. The humming… the humming.

Harold opened his eyes, and looked around. He noticed that DeGama couldn't ignore it anymore either, a confused look spreading on his face.

"What is that?" asked DeGama.

"Sir, the lights."

Harold watched as many of the lights flicked, but got brighter and brighter. DeGama stood upright, watching as the fixtures began to vibrate.

"What is it?" he asked, "I want answers!"

"I don't-"

Started the guard, but by then the humming pitched in volume and exploded. The light bulbs exploded one by one, and the glass shattered. Somewhere in the compound and actual explosion shook the building, and fire leapt and started in the warehouse. As the room fell into darkness and the floors shaked, Harold took a deep breath and mustered all his strength.

He threw up his legs, mailing DeGama in the crotch and casting him aside with a yelp. DeGama crashed into one of the guards, who dropped his pistol in the confusion. It landed next to Harold, who rolled and grabbed it.

Harold threw himself upright, aiming the pistol and pulling the trigger. He sent one bullet right through a guards head, and turning the pistol to the next he did the same. Looking around, he saw the knocked over guard stand, and he put a few rounds in his chest. Before he could look around in the darkness DeGama had tackled him, causing him to lose grip on the pistol.

The emergency lights kicked on, and a distant siren began to call out. Harold ignored it and stood, looking around in the dim light for DeGama. DeGama stood not far away, and put up his fists for a fight, the brass knuckles still clutched in his hands.

Harold put his fists up, and lunged out for a punch. DeGama batted his punch aside, and lifted his leg up and kicked Harold right in the face. Harold recovered and lunged forward for another attack. Degama leapt, and kicked him again. After a few well timed punched and kicks, DeGama threw Harold back.

"Knock out that hopping and junk," slurred Harold, "Don't you people fight like men anymore!"

"Brawling's for the weak. Martial Arts is something you should pick up," said DeGama, "Let me, teach you!"

DeGama sent out a sharp kick. Harold sidestepped and it missed, but he grabbed DeGama's leg. With a swift jab with his elbow, Harold slammed DeGama's leg, and his heart fluttered at the sound of a crack. DeGama let out a groan. Harold used this time to land a punch in DeGama's face, sending him across the room.

DeGama landed on his back, struggling to stand up again. He clutched his leg, snarling at Harold and the bad luck. Harold looked around the room, then spotted his revolver on the ground. Walking over to it, DeGama tried harder to stand, the tried to crawl. Seeing neither was an option, he just glared and snarled at Harold.

"Killing me won't do anything," said DeGama, "There are no spoils to this battle. There are more Helicopters then myself. It shall survive, it shall thrive!"

"Not without you," said Harold, picking up his revolver and checking the bullets inside, "They will scatter, then they will gather and scheme. However, with your forces scattered, and you dead… and your base destroyed… well… you are a mighty battleship. You lose your captain, you lose sum of your crew. Your powder is wet and your ship is sinking. How long will they last in the ocean with the sharks? With the other ships?"

"They will see you dead," said DeGama, "You are… already dead!"

Harold walked to the window, and smiled, "Look at your empire now! The surge broke you. Your captives run free. The aliens fight amongst themselves and your troops. It appears they have more to worry about trying to retain the jail break."

"My teams will find your automated SAM sights soon," said DeGama, crawling towards the door, "They… will land. Reinforce…"

"There are no missiles, Richard," said Harold, smiling at the scene unfolding in the warehouse, "It's a rouse. Your men run out of fuel for nothing."

DeGama closed his eyes and cursed. Harold turned and walked towards DeGama.

"Any reason why I shouldn't kill you now?" asked Harold.

"You are not like that," said DeGama, smiling. He raised his hands, "I… I can be useful. Together… we can make the Black Helicopters so much greater. Or Torchwood, if you prefer! Thick of the money. Think of the… the wealth. We would do great together!"

"That's just it," said Harold, almost chuckling, "It's all about the money… Do you not understand? I don't care. Torchwood… is not the same as it was. And Under my leadership it'll change."

"Nothing ever changes!" spat DeGama, "You won't change by killing me…"

"Everything changes," said Harold, cocking back the hammer, "I should know… I live it."

"Please…" said DeGama, tears running down his face, he clutched his hurt leg and looked around him, "I won't hurt nobody… there's no reason anyone'll know. Please… have mercy!"

"Mercy," said Harold, sighing.

He raised the pistol and fired, the bullet going right through DeGama's forehead. He fell, dead. Harold sighed, and holstered his pistol. He closed his eyes and took a second to breathe.

When he opened his eyes Juliet was standing in the doorway. He rifle was slung over her back, and she starred coldly at Harold.

"You had to?" She asked, a strange uncertainty in her voice.

"DeGama built an empire off fear and abuse," said Harold, "There's no place in this new world for him."

"And who's call was that to make?"

"His," said Harold, raising his voice slightly, "I only pulled the trigger."

"You murdered a wounded man."

"I killed a murderer and a thief… before he could do the same to me… to us."

Enrica and Shannon rounded the corner, both with their rifles at the ready.

"Come on, man!" said Enrica, pulling the memory device from his satchel and waving it around, "We got it!"

"Good work," said Harold, looking around for his rifle.

"No, we really got to go," said Juliet, "That reactor is about to do some real exploding soon and Alan says we got to go, now!"

It was now Harold realized he did not have his earpiece, and he nodded and followed the crew out of the building.

Enrica explained on the way that he went unnoticed for the most part, and the release of the alien prisoners made it possible for him to openly move about the campus without the guards caring. He found the memory device on a dead man in one of the waiting rooms, and he took it.

As they ran, Shannon lead them to the roof and to one of the parked Helicopters. Enrica, in his many talents, knew how to fly it. Harold was uncertain, but he boarded as a great deal of helicopters circled the building preparing to land. Enrica took off just as the others landed, and an explosion erupted and damaged most of the roof, crashing a few helicopters. Enrica held her steady, and they flew off to the horizon.

"Kinda funny, ain't it?" said Enrica, "Now we have a black helicopter! Pretty cool?"

"Enrica," said Harold, who vomited out the side door, "Shuttup!"

As Harold looked up from vomiting, he noticed a suited figure in the distance. A flash… in the alleyway. His heart jumped, and he looked again, but it was gone.

"What is it?" asked Shannon, pointing to Harold's hand gripping his revolver.

"Nothing," said Harold… sighing, "An… old Ghost."

Harold wrote the last line on the paperwork in front of him and smiled. He hit a key on the computer keyboard and some sensor above him read the paper and updated information on the screen. Tiffani's voice came over the speaker.

"User Updated. New User: Lieutenant Harold Norman, is now: Lieutenant Norman. Welcome, Lieutenant."

"Thanks Tiffani," said Harold, "Wish all paperwork was this easy."

"Lieutenant, you have a call awaiting you. It is being sent from Cardiff, Whales. Do you wish to receive it?"

"Put him through," smiled Harold.

A giant holographic screen lit up in front of his desk, and he could clearly see a video showing another desk and office. Sitting at a chair was Captain Jack Harkness, who only wore suspenders and a blue shirt and pants. He smiled and waved, Harold waving back, feeling foolish.

"Well, look at you, soldier," said Jack, "All settled in and in charge. Sorry about dicing off like that. Big… things came up here. So much going on."

"That's quite alright," said Harold, smiling, "I think we needed… a chance to work things out."

"So… reports are in… and it appears you guys did a lot of work a few days ago," smiled Jack, "Looks like you did all right by yourself, didn't you?"

"The American way," said Harold, laughing, "With an explosion."

"Well… I'm glad it all worked out."

"No casualties," said Harold, "We got the memory majiger, and DeGama is dead."

Jack's face softened, and he nodded, "Had to be done."

"So… now we're just… settling in," said Harold.

"So I see," said Jack, moving around on the screen as if he was looking, "Looks like you've moved some things around. Going through the Director's vault, huh?"

"Yehp, need to get up to speed on more then a few things," said Harold.

"See you moved that old safe," said Jack, nodding at Harold, "Where too?"

"Vault," said Harold, leaning back, "Out of sight, out of mind."

Harold smiled. Remembering the hours he starred at that safe. He almost did it, a day after returning. He had almost opened it, and delved into the age old file. At the last second… he looked at his team. Eating pizza and recounting their tales of the night before. The battle…

He found the vault and moved it inside… far inside. Hid it away. With that, he pushed Der Ritter to the back of his mind just like the safe to the back of the vault. He sighed. Triumphant.

"Tea, sir," came a voice from the screen, and another figure who gave Jack a cup and leaned over, into the shot so Harold could see him, "So… that's Boston."

"Hiya," said Harold.

"Harold, Ianto Jones. Better agent? I find few."

"Agent… shucks," said Ianto.

"Nice to meet you," said Harold, "So, Jack. When you coming over to visit?"

"Most likely, not for a long time," said Jack, "Rift activity is all over the place… and we are… short staffed."

"I understand."

"Hey, Harold," said Jack, "You did good out there, kid. I think you're going to do quite well out there for yourself."

"I hope so too," said Harold.

"Remember," said Jack, "It's different now. Silent… in the shadows. Be a conspiracy… without the cult following. Huh?"

"I shall try," smiled Harold.

"Separate from the Government," said Jack, pointing at the screen, "Beyond the police."

"Hey Harold," yelled Juliet from the door, "We got something to show you!"

"Alright," said Harold, then turning back to the screen he said, "Duty calls, gentlemen. I bid you a good day. May we speak again."

"Go get them, tiger," said Jack, winking at the camera.

The screen went dead and the hologram faded away. Harold rose and stretched, walking around his desk and following Juliet. She brought him into the motorpool, where the rest of the team was waiting.

"So, the old ride was cool and all… but… It wasn't us," said Enrica.

"What he means is that we need something strong and modern," corrected Thomas, walking over to a large object hidden under a sheet, "And… can withstand a rocket."

"We already got a tank," stated Harold, smiling.

"This isn't a tank…. Exactly," said Thomas, yanking on the Sheet.

As it fell away, it displayed a brand new Humvee. Sheer black with glossy paint. Silver letting of the Torchwood T on the side. On the back it read "Torchwood" with the license plate "TORCHED". Green siren lights lined the tops and side mirrors. Large, reinforced tires were at every axel.

Harold had to take a step back and gasped, smiling from ear to ear.

"A… tank," said Harold.

"A Humvee," said Juliet, "Think it's torchwood enough?"

Harold smiled, putting his hands on his hips, "It'll certainly hold all of us better."

"All of us," said Thomas, smiling, "It needs too. We're all gonna need to go places."

Harold smiled, "I hope that includes you?"

"You betcha," said Alan, smiling, "Won't let him leave!"

"Good to hear," said Harold, smiling.

"So… Director," said Juliet, smiling, "What do we do now?"

"Well," Harold said, "First off, I'm not a Director yet. And Second… I hear rumors of a good amount of alien prisoners from a certain special forces troupe have gone missing. Maybe we should look into…"

"Already on it," said Thomas, "I'll check police records for the last few days and get a bug for future reports."

"I'll check local hospital records for strange injuries," smiled Shannon.

"I'll check the streets and my contacts," said Enrica.

"I'll take a nap and wish you luck," smiled Alan.

Everyone laughed and patted each other on the back. Harold waved them away, and they dispersed. He walked over to the Humvee and placed his hand on it. It wasn't Linda… but it would have to do. He nodded, and turned to head back to his office.


End file.
